


Blooming

by FeuillesMortes



Series: Of Roses Red and White [2]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The White Princess (TV), Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England - Thomas Penn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Developing Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-07-13 19:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16024358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeuillesMortes/pseuds/FeuillesMortes
Summary: True lasting love, they say, is the most satisfying mess one could ever make.A sequel toWe Sang of Roses.





	1. Prologue

There were times Henry missed France. Mornings when he would wake up to the funny, slightly unpleasant smell of the Thames but thinking of the salty, rich air of the sea washing up on the Breton shore. Nights when he would fall asleep to the sound of street buses but longing for the numb muteness of small cities. There were times when he missed them, those long lazy afternoons of his teenage years: orange hued skies that consumed the hours, waves crashing against the rocks that stood far below his dangling feet. No sound but the distant cry of seagulls, no touch but the wind sweeping down his frame. Peace. In that ever stretching solitude, his alone was the universe — the soft crunching of the shells and the loud rampaging of the waves were equally his. He would wander around those cliffs till nightfall, a book under his arm, his head full of Celtic legends and tales of old.

But then there were days like this: her head nested in the crook of his neck, his nose buried down in the soft silk of her hair. The warmth of her body spreading through him like an electric bolt. Hands splayed against her back, his shoulders gripped tight, her mouth opening underneath his like a blooming flower, dewy lips and sweet nectar pouring into him. Days when all his concerns seemed to dissolve at the sight of her smile, nights when all his problems seemed to shrink at the feel of her skin. Then, making a life for himself in the capital, Henry would not regret a thing. Then, her cheek pressed gently against his, there was no other place he would rather be than London, no other place than Britain.

_Heart beating slowly. Head clouding. Heart taking off again._

The air was so crisp that morning. It was still early, few people were passing in the street. She was dressed in all whites and mauves, light grey peeking from under her flared peacoat. Even during the bleakest time of the winter her whole world was composed of the pale glowing of pearls: soft pinks and baby blues, silver and lilac, iridescent shades of nacre. Lizzie had a thick scarf wrapped about her neck, looping around her head multiple times. Her hair was tucked inside it (probably for extra warmth, he mused) and Henry had to stop his fingers from undoing it and setting her locks free. Itchy, wandering and greedy fingers. He had always had those when it came to her.

Their white mingles of breath met midway in a cloud of mist. They exchanged a long, languid kiss as a way of goodbye. His glasses were fogging, his breath, stalling. He cradled her cheek with one hand but felt her thin, beating pulse with the other one circled around her wrist, sneaked inside the sleeve of her coat to map what bit of skin his fingers could touch. A longing to hold her close, closer.

Slowly, Lizzie disentangled from his embrace. The smile she gave him was sheepish, almost rueful. “Sorry, I have to go now.”

“Stay just a bit longer, will you?” He bent down to plant a kiss on the underside of her jaw.

Her huff of laughter tickled against his face. Just the softest breeze, warm against the cold. “But I’ve got to go, you see.”

“It’s _Saturday_.” He gave his grievance a mock, exaggerated air. “Of all days, they shouldn’t make you work on a _Saturday_.”

“It’s _volunteer_ work, Henry. I’m sure they need all of us today.” She pulled back and reached for one of his hands. She squeezed it, started drawing small circles on the back of it with her thumb. Just the lightest brush of her finger pad. “See, we’ve had lots of press coverage for the event, so hopefully plenty of people will show up to donate. I know it might be just wishful thinking but..." She trailed off, shaking her head in the adorable way she usually did. "... you know."

She smiled ever so brightly, eyes squinting at the edges. Her whole face was lit up with the prospect like some luminous, spiralling star, and Henry couldn’t find the words to hold her back anymore. He resigned himself to a weary sigh and booped her nose.

“Alright, miss. Let me know how it goes.”

Talking about her day was a favourite pastime of hers. People deemed her quiet, but only those who didn’t know her truly well couldn’t see how much of a chatterbox she could be. She was always humming, chirping — what new book she was reading, that new singer she had discovered on Spotify, a new purchase she had made ( _"A right bargain, you’d be so proud!”_ ). And especially of late, she had all those stories she loved to tell. Some days of the month Lizzie volunteered at a non-profit organisation that worked with homeless shelters across London. Most places they visited could hardly be considered safe by his standards but she wouldn’t hear of his reasons against her going. _“If we’re not helping those who need us the most,”_ she had said, _“then what’s the point?”_

Yes, it was selfish of him to hold her back. Selfish and almost primeval, ape-like: he wanted to keep her all to himself. Terribly attached, as if he were some medieval, treasure-hoarding dragon. _His and his alone_ , his heart sang. Those days when they met at his place, as he typed and stared at his laptop screen — figures and numbers spinning, long lists of names and columns side by side cramming his less than ideal eyesight — he found her chattering a strange, almost mystical sort of comfort. Her voice would come out soothing and melodious like a trance, hypnotising, lulling him to some much needed sleep.

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before turning to leave. “See you later, love.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Henry pulled her back to him, hands scooping her waist. The pads of his fingers gently smoothed down her sides. He kissed her again, starting by the corners of her mouth. “I’ll let you go.” He vowed as their lips brushed together. “I promise.” The tip of his tongue traced her bottom lip and she laced an arm around his neck. “Just—” Her soft mouth pliant beneath his. “—just—” She hummed against him, met his tongue with a shivering. He never got to finish his sentence.

_Just give me a minute, love._

There it was again: that feeling of complete addiction, of irrational attachment. A craving, a thirst, the blood rushing to his ears to sing a single-worded chant: _more_. Henry had always had a secret sweet tooth, an innate hunger for all things sugary. And Lizzie… Lizzie was no different. Tooth-aching sweet, she melted into him like the sugar cubes she dropped in her cuppa. All the nights they spent together were not enough, all the times he touched her skin were not enough. The shared kisses, the feel of her whole body pressed against his. Henry had a gnawing feeling they would never be so. Since when had his heart started ruling over his head? It scared him. It scared him down to his bones. The whirling of a brief disorderly momentum: the chance of being thrown off the edge, Hitchcock vertigo, hauled off the orbit like some mad dysfunctional satellite.

By the time he released her, her cheeks were all flushed. Lizzie nodded after each of his parting words. “Yes, yes, love. I really need to go now. I really do.”

“Don’t forget to text me when you get there!” Henry tried to remind her as her hurried steps took her across the street and into her path to the tube station.

He waited till she was out of his field of vision, sighed, fixed the glasses slipping down his nose, and turned to go about his business. His head was clearing off again, his heartbeat steadying. It was _Saturday_ , but that didn’t mean a thing to Henry; he might as well work as any other day. A quick glance at the granite-coloured sky told him it was about to be another frosty day. Framed by the naked branches of the trees, January opened up on him like a vast, white expanse of the sea, offering the promise of a chilly grey month. It did not matter. Henry thrived off the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
>  
> 
>  
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>  
> 
> Just a quick note to the readers: the characters in this story are not based on any book/tv adaptation, but modeled after what we know about the real historical figures (Henry VII of England and Elizabeth of York). All of this, of course, taking in consideration modern times and how their personalities might translate to the 21st century.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> This prologue was brought to you by the tags:  
> • they're so in love • it's disgusting •  
> _____________
> 
> Drop me a comment if you have any questions (or if you feel like commenting <3).


	2. The Rising Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The air in London felt crisp and clear that day — a whole city ripe for the taking, but only one destination on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only so you don't get confused: "City" (with a capital C) or "the City" is the financial/historical district in Central London, City of London, also known as Square Mile. When I say "city" (with a small c) I'm referring to London as a whole.

“So did you tell her or not?”

Lizzie stared at the cardboard cup before her: chai latte, soy milk, one sugar. She had finished drinking it some time before but still she looked at the scribed letters that made up her nickname with a fixed intent _—_ bold marker strokes made with a flourish and the quick swish of a wrist. Around her, the charity fair at Old Spitalfields Market went on, the sounds of people bustling and chatting and laughing coming distantly to her ears. A merry wooziness, a buzzing, strangely comforting in its blurring of time.

She had helped with the decoration just the day before, though now all the carefully thought over details escaped her mind completely. Lizzie had painted murals, decked the walls with ribbons, put up posters, redistributed chairs and tables all over the market hall. Making up for a good show was something that was wired in her system, a quasi-genetic trait. Her mother always said she had watched her father and his PR antics far too many times. For a long time Lizzie had wanted nothing more than exactly that: to be unmistakingly her father’s daughter, his little girl through and through.

Ever since she was little, she had been taken to the galas, the garden parties, the Sunday roasts, even to the official dinners sometimes _—_ those big stately occasions when important businessmen would shake her father’s hand with a poised smile and a practised chuckle, glasses clinking together, dinners bursting with the finest delicacies and showered with the best wines from Burgundy: Pinot Noir and Aligoté, but reigning above all others, bottles and bottles of Chardonnay. White, golden and perfect. Her father’s favourite.

But perhaps for the first time ever, Lizzie felt like she could put her skills to a good purpose. She had never been a stranger to volunteering, but she had found a special fondness for the homeless cause. Her family scare just the previous year had made her acutely aware to the problems of the thousands of people sleeping rough across the city. It only made her feel incredibly lucky.

“... Lizzie? Hello?”

The sound of fingers snapping near her left ear took her back to Spitalfields and the little stall she was responsible for. _Clothes,_ the word spilled over her mind to tether her back to Earth. She was there to receive donations: gloves, hats, coats, scarves, every winter gear that people could and were willing to give away. Lizzie would not have realised she had been quiet for such a long stretch of time, cheek resting on her fist, if her cousin Maggie hadn’t tried to catch her attention. She looked back at her cousin with a start.

“I’m sorry? Did you say something?”

“Oh, dear.” Maggie smiled. An affable and sweet, yet somewhat condescending smile. “Were you thinking of him again?”

Margaret York, Lizzie’s cousin, had moved to London just last semester. Starting her course at Westminster, Maggie had stumbled upon a common need among undergrads: accommodation. It all felt rather providential, if not nearly ideal. Lizzie’s former flatmates had all but graduated and she too had been in need of someone to share the rent with. She had hoped that sharing a place with a girl (and a cousin above all things) would turn out to be an incredibly fun experience for her last year at uni. If only it had been so simple.

Lizzie knew full well whom that _him_ was referring to.

“I was _not_.”

A half-hearted protest was all Lizzie managed to utter before going quiet again, brows knit together. She was sure she had flushed bright red, for she felt her cheeks burning. People were always telling her she had her head up in the clouds, ever the daydreamer, but they shouldn’t feel entitled to say what she was thinking about, should they?

“Oh, don’t give me that face!” Maggie tried to humour her with a nudge to her ribs. “Yesterday at your mum’s, did you tell her at last?”

“I… didn’t.” She shifted uncomfortably on top of her stool, crossing her ankles. “Not yet.”

“But it’s the second time you do that, Lizzie! What did you say to me last time?”

She only had time to blink before her sister Cece intervened, loud voice coming from her other shoulder. “Stop nagging poor Lizzie! You’re doing a well good job at boring us to death. Is that what you’re on about?”

Their cousin huffed, visibly sulking. It was not the first time she and Cecily had a bickering of sorts. “I was just asking your sister a fairly simple question. I mean, will she ever tell her mum she’s got a boyfriend? I’m afraid I’ll end up spilling the beans any day now.”

Maggie was never, in fact, supposed to know Lizzie was dating anyone. Henry had been introduced simply as " _her mate Henry"_ aformer flatmate that would stop by from time to time. In hindsight, one could see it was nearly impossible not to happen. One night poor Maggie had gone to bed early only to wake up and find the two of them snogging in the kitchen: Lizzie placed on the countertop, her legs wrapped around him, his hands pressed under her jumper and ascending to cup her bra. A most scandalous sight.

Henry had not even tried to pretend to be embarrassed, the bastard, but Lizzie had quickly scurried down to the floor to run after her shocked cousin with a series of “ _I’m sorry, Maggie darling”, “Forgive me, Maggie darling”, “It won’t happen again, Maggie darling”_ and plenty of other exclamations that ended with the saccharine endearing _Maggie-darling_. It was enough to turn her ears pink whenever she remembered the incident.

Cecily, though, wasn’t having any of their cousin’s fussing. “Well, I _live_ with my mum and if I can keep my gob shut so can _you,_ I reckon _—”_

“Cece, it’s alright. It’s alright, really.” Lizzie clasped her sister’s hand to try to appease her. Despite her sister’s half-formed words of protest, she turned to her cousin with a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t worry, Maggie. I’m going to tell my mum… _soon_. I promise.”

“I swear I’m not trying to be a bore.”

Maggie was frowning deeply, a notion that made her look like a sullen child — that same little Maggie with scrawny legs and pointy elbows that had grown up in the countryside. As the daughter of her father’s brother George, Maggie had not been graced with the Woodville genes, sadly. Her nose was strong and bird-like, her hair of a lustreless tawny, her mouth too small, too thin. Much like Lizzie herself, however, Maggie had warm hazel eyes, of a light brown shifting to gold and rounded with green.

“I don’t understand why you’re taking so long. You’ve been together for like what, three months?”

Lizzie reached for one of the brown sugar packets lying next to their cups. She flicked it, shook it back and forth. “How long… _officially_ , you mean— _I_ mean, officially...” She averted her gaze, tore at the packet with fresh painted nails, pearly white. “Officially, that is… five months, almost six by now.”

Lizzie had spent a dull, lengthy summer in North Yorkshire with her father’s relatives, exchanging texts and calls from Henry as the only thing connecting her back to London. It was only a matter of her going back to the city for them to become, well, _official_. Whatever that meant. She only knew that all that time her heart had fluttered and beat after him, his voice coming longingly on the other end of the line. _I think of you all the time. It’s maddening. What have you done to me?_

“Good lord! Really, Lizzie?” Maggie looked genuinely astonished, flabbergasted. “Six months is half a year, half a year is half a lifetime! Don’t forget to send me the wedding invitation, please.”

“Maggie!” Her cousin laughed at her poorly made joke, but Lizzie could only feel her face hot. “That’s not funny! Please don’t say such things.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be such a snowflake! I didn’t really mean to—”

“Alright, enough!” Cece clapped her hands noisily. Lizzie’s consternation had at least some time to breathe. “Enough with this chat now, Maggie. It’s lunchtime and I’m _starving_. Why don’t you go and buy us all some food?”

“Why _me_? _You_ go if you’re hungry. I certainly don’t want to, I’m not even peckish.”

“I can’t because…” Cece clicked her tongue, tilting her head. Her cat-eared hat almost fell from its place. “Because... I can’t leave Lizzie alone here. We’re both listed as volunteers, you know we can’t leave our place. So…” She shrugged. “That leaves _you_ as our food supplier.”

Cece winked at her sister, grinning triumphantly as though she had just won some school debate. Her golden hair was parted in a double French plait in which peach and green coloured streaks could be seen. _Little Cece_ , as her parents used to call her, as sprightly as a comet, always running about the house, waking the neighbours at ungodly hours whenever she put into her mind to play the grand piano downstairs.

“ _Maggie darling_ ,” Lizzie tried in her turn. “Won’t you make this small, teeny-tiny, littlest favour for me?”

Her cousin sighed impatiently, but got up from her stool nonetheless. “What do you want to eat?”

“Oh, just come up with something.” Cece chimed in. “Like… Curry! I don’t know, surprise us!” She made a motion with her hand that looked suspiciously like shooing. “Now go on, go on. Don’t just gad about here.”

For a moment Lizzie thought her cousin would resist again, put her foot down and refuse to go, but Maggie actually reached for her handbag. “ _Fine_.”

Lizzie watched her cousin walk to the food centre, the varied smells coming all the way to her stall: egg noodles and fried rice, kebab and masala, all those rich scents from multicultural East London. She watched her go with something akin to relief, but not without a touch of guilt. If losing her father had felt awful enough, Lizzie could only imagine what it felt like to lose your mother at the tender age of three, only to lose your father just a couple of years after that. To be left an orphan, with only a little brother to keep you company. 

It was not that Lizzie didn’t _want_ to tell her mother — it was more like she didn’t want her little bubble to pop just yet. Things were going so smoothly between the two of them, so why should she change it at all? So far there were only a few people who knew about their relationship status: Henry’s mum and uncle, Cece, and of course now, Maggie.

Beside her, her sister shook her head. “She’s a bit of a handful, isn’t she?”

Lizzie hated feeling like she had done someone an injustice, but her sister didn’t leave her much time to protest.

“But I say we change the subject! We’re not here to talk about _Maggie_. Really, of all things we could talk about— And we rarely spend time together anymore! Henry is always hoarding you away...” Cece stopped to purse her lips into a wry smile, eyes glinting with mischief. “First of all, what’s _this_?”

She pointed to the heap of torn sugar packets Lizzie had scattered along the table, lying limply like the remnants of some massacre.

“Oh, sorry!” Lizzie wrapped them all inside a serviette. “You know I always get fidgety when I’m anxious.”

“Lizzie...”

“I’m going to tell mum, I swear I will.” She clasped her hands over her lap, twiddled her thumbs, hid her fists inside the sleeves of her jumper. Every now and then a gust of wind blew into the Victorian roofed market, bringing down a chill.

“I’m only, you know, working up my nerve. I didn’t want to tell her _then_ , and I feel it’s a bit awkward to tell her  _now_.”

“Lizzie—”

“And I know Henry wants me to meet all of his relatives already, which of course means I should at least tell my own mother—”

“Lizzie!” She looked up from her lap in time to see her sister grinning. “You are _so_ _cute_. Look at you, getting all red-cheeked because you don’t want to disappoint mum. You know I couldn’t be arsed myself.”

Lizzie huffed indignantly, dodging the hand that tried to pinch her right cheek. “Stop telling me I’m cute! I’m not _cute_ , I’m older than you!”

By three years, certainly, but still she was the eldest of the two.

“You are! Lizzie, you so are!” Cecily slung an arm around her neck to pull her into a bear hug. “You’re the cutest by far, you silly teabag! A cutie patootie!”

Cece started tickling her sides and much despite herself, Lizzie couldn't help laughing under her ministrations. Smothered as she was by her sister’s smooches, Lizzie could only resign herself wordlessly to that coloured judgement. One day, she vowed, she would be considered more than just a _cutie patootie_.

“Quick now, Cece. Stop it, stop it.” She spotted a couple coming their way with what looked like a large bag of donations. “Come on now, we’ve got work to do.”

Yes, they had work to do, people to attend to and donations to collect, but that didn’t stop Lizzie from unlocking her mobile screen and, with one quick sneaky glance, check her texts from Henry. She had been, in fact, thinking of him. She felt like a teenager again, daffy and carefree, doodling his name on the margins of her notebook pages.

 

* * *

 

Henry locked his mobile, placing it safely inside his pocket as Edward Woodville stepped into the small coffee shop. _Black Sheep Coffee_ , it was called, #leavetheherdbehind signs printed on the serviettes. The place was no different to hundreds of other such establishments that had swarmed the London scene over the recent years: special signature drinks, moustached baristas with top knots, Ethiopian grind, 100% Arabica beans. The venue had a distinctive hipster-y quality to it, all dark walls covered with graffiti, but what what really mattered was its nicheness, its semi-obscure location at the heart of the City.

The streets were mostly empty. Had it been a weekday, Henry would have been greeted with the usual sights one could find around London’s financial district: weary-looking men dressed in button-downs and suits, a huddle of briefcases crowding the streets; short, disjointed, inarticulate conversations held over mobile phones. Codes and numbers and lawsuits. Instead, his brisk surefooted strides had met no resistance as he made his way into the City, wool scarf wrapped around his neck to brave out the winds coming from the river.

“What a dog’s weather!” Red-faced and short-winded, Edward gracelessly sank into his chair. “I thought I’d freeze to death on my way here. No joking!”

Henry slid one of the cardboard cups across the table. “Not to worry. I bought something to cheer you up.”

“Oh.” Ed took the cup hesitantly. He was probably not expecting his grumpiness to be met with a free drink (least of all from Henry, perhaps), but he shrugged it off all the same. “Well, cheers it is, then!” He took to the beverage eagerly, pausing between two gulps as if to explain himself, somewhat bashfully. “Sorry for my rant, I was in need of a hot drink for sure.”

“So I’d figured.”

His friend turned an inquisitive eye around the place. “I suppose that Costa over Tower Hill was too much of a public place, was it?”

Henry let out a stealthy, thin smile, but hid it behind the brim of his own cup. “Precisely _._ ”

That was one of the reasons why Henry liked his co-worker: Ed was quick at picking up on signs. He was hard-working and driven, exceedingly diligent in every project he was involved in. At the office he was known to be driven to extreme bouts of proactivity every now and then. Taken by sudden energy, he would be seen running from place to place. He was generally regarded as an earnest, thoroughly trustworthy fellow.

“So are we discussing business or not? We didn’t come here for a round of banter, I presume.”

 _And sometimes rather too forward_ , Henry mused. Forwardness, however, was the hallmark of honest people. Or so it was said.

“Ed, would you care to look at something for me?”

Taking another draw on his coffee, Henry handed over his laptop and lied back with ease. Draped over the back of his chair was a long overcoat made of a dark grey, a classic Harris Tweed, more than enough to protect him from the day's chill. He kept downing his coffee as he waited for a reaction that was soon to follow.

“What’s this? A powerpoint presentation?”

Henry’s sly smile flashed through. “Did you really think I’d come unprepared?”

“Oh, on the contrary.” Ed shook his head, amused. “I’ve known you long enough, mate. I’ve known you long enough as it is.”

Slide after slide, Edward pressed on. Sometimes he would frown, squinting his eyes, and sometimes he nodded his head along as though he was talking to the screen itself. Henry even saw him smiling at one point. Ed kept on that sort of face journey till a black screen appeared. The presentation had ended.

“So…” Another sip on his coffee. “What do you think?”

“Well, I reckon it’s a great plan to attract new partners.” Ed slid a hand over the stub of his newly-growing beard, dark blond, as only a man unused to it would. “A great plan, yes. Even bold, I’d say. Although...” He paused to scratch at his chin, reconsidering. “I mean, cryptocurrency? I’m not so sure it’s the right catering to our clients. Are you... showing this to François next week?”

Henry stared intently into his cup, twisting it from side to side. The Black Sheep logo spun between his fingers. “Tell me something. Why do I think I’m showing you all this?”

He heard his co-worker chuckling dryly. “Not because we’re mates, is it?”

 _He knows me well enough, I suppose_.

“Well, in fact, no.” He stole a sideways glance at Edward before setting aside his cup. “Ed, did you know I’m dating your niece?”

“My _what_?” Ed’s whole face looked as if short circuiting. “I beg your pardon?”

Henry drawled each word. “Your niece.”

Ed blinked, looking deathly pale by now. “Which—which niece you say?”

Henry calmly pulled out his mobile and showed a picture taken that past Christmas. If anyone were to ask Henry, he would deny very vehemently ever taking a selfie. But, as it were, he was showing Ed precisely one. Lizzie, quite literally dressed in Christmas cheer from head to toe, and a smiling version of himself posed on the ice rink of Somerset House, faces close together. The reason for such a picture had been simple enough: Lizzie had asked him. _“To remember our first Christmas together”_ , she had whispered, eyes glinting excitedly. And with a batting of her golden eyelashes, she added that word that was so hard to refuse when it came to her: " _please?”_

A cliché date for sure and yet… Henry was positively grinning at his phone now, he had forgotten all about Edward for a moment. He remembered how Lizzie had loved the idea of going ice skating. Although she had claimed to be a natural skater, she had fallen down several times. Henry had never known someone clumsier or more accident-prone than Lizzie, the poor thing. He slid his finger on the screen and stopped at the most comical picture: Lizzie, her bum on the ice, laughing heartily as he snapped a blurry photo.

“Oh, fuck off!”

Henry was forcefully reminded of his co-worker’s presence. Edward took the phone from his hand and squinted at the screen.

“That’s my sister’s eldest, you bastard!”

Henry suppressed a laugh and, faking seriousness, frowned slightly. “Would you prefer it to be one of the younger ones?”

“What—No! No, of course not! That’s fucked up, that’s—that’s not what I meant! I mean—”

Edward had gone from deathly pale to tomato red and Henry let out a hearty, full body laugh that he tried to suppress with a fist to his mouth, but that only seemed to increase his co-worker’s redness.

“You shoddy bastard! You bloody well know what I mean! _Your_ Lizzie is _my niece_ Lizzie? Just fuck the right off, mate! I can’t believe you!”

The few people lounging at the coffee shop were staring at them — that hipster,  _this-is-not-the-place_ scowl, but Henry couldn’t fault Ed for his honest reaction. Though Henry had asked Lizzie about a certain Edward Woodville as soon as they had started dating, they both had agreed on not telling anyone about their relationship as long as they were still figuring things out. But then... they were turning their sixth month and things had turned out to be, well, interesting.

Ed gave his mobile back with a shove. “Come on, now! Are you treating her well, Henry? Don’t— don’t bloody laugh at me, you cheeky— You know why I’ve got to ask this question! She doesn’t have a father to do it in my place!”

 _And thank God she doesn’t_. An uncharitable thought, certainly, and Henry would never say that to Lizzie, but he had a suspicion things would be a lot more complicated if her father were alive. In fact, had her father not passed away, Henry doubted he would ever have met Lizzie at all.

“I’m treating your niece with the utmost respect, if that’s what you want to know. So there. Are you satisfied with my answer?”

“Quite.” Though he looked far from it. “It was my… my responsibility. Yes, my responsibility to ask you that. And my... duty as an uncle. Yes.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Ed looked truly befuddled at the sudden position Henry had thrown him into. It seemed it was no easy task to be turned responsible for a niece just some years younger than himself, and then to be informed that one of his mates had been dating her all along. Was that against the bro code, he wondered. Henry didn’t know. And he didn’t care.

Henry crossed one leg over the other, one foot dangling in the air. “You see, we’re bound by friendship, if not yet by law.”

“Thinking about tying the knot, are you?”

Henry replied to that sly smile with a dismissive wave of hand. “That’s neither here nor there. The fact is: we’re more or less bound together, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so… though I must confess you caught me off guard there.”

Henry half-smiled. As if it wasn’t exactly what he had intended all along. He stood up. By now his coffee had gone cold and he needed to stretch his legs. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Henry gathered his things and turned to his friend at the door, shouldering his coat on. “What? Afraid of a little cold?”

Edward snorted, swallowed the rest of his coffee and shoved past him. “Don’t get too cheeky.”

It was a short walk to the church of St Dunstan-in-the-East. It was said that once Dunstan had been the most famous and celebrated saint in all of England — his iron tongs, red-hot and fierce, had made the devil howl in pain as they pinched and pulled him by his nose — but now the temple consecrated to the saint’s name stood in nothing but ruins. A great part of the medieval basilica had been bombed out during the Blitz, leaving only some of the late gothic walls and its tower intact. Yet, still the church stood in its place, stubbornly so: it had been turned into a public garden. Those bucolic ruins offered a safe haven for anyone wishing to escape the hustle and bustle of the City.

Their steps were soon greeted by grey walls overrun with withered vines. There were a few tourists at the site, none lingering too long thanks to the wind blowing along Lower Thames Street. A couple of idle steps placed them in front of a large curious-looking tree: the bark was greyish and wrinkled, but its leaves were glossy and leathery, of a dark green contrasting markedly against the January sky.

Henry took off one of his black leather gloves to touch the tree bark and, as if the thought had just crossed his mind, he asked. “It’s not too long since you’ve been working for François, is it?”

“No. We both started around the same time, as I recall.”

 _Interesting_. Ed lowered himself to one of the park benches, but Henry wandered some steps further among the evergreens. “So you did leave your former company not too long after your boss died. Lizzie’s father, I mean.”

He turned in time to see Ed frown for a second, then scoff, letting out a huff of indignation. “And suffer Richard as the new CEO, you mean? Not bloody likely.”

According to Lizzie, _Richard York_ was a name never again to be pronounced among her mother’s side of the family. It was almost comical to hear her say the way they avoided to mention him — ' _the one who should not be named’_ sort of thing. Mrs York had started to refer to him as Lizzie’s _deceased uncle_ even though Lizzie had, in fact, an uncle who had passed away long before her father. One could figure.

“It was a sorry business from what I've heard.”

“It was worse than sorry! It was a whole fucking mess—” Ed stopped mid-rant to glare at the sight of Henry lighting up a cigarette. “You don’t smoke around my niece, do you?”

Henry grimaced. “ _Obviously_ not.”

What sort of fuckwit would he have to be to do that? If he was in the business of ruining lungs, he was ruining his own and his own only. There was also the small, not so particular fact that Lizzie had wanted him to quit for a long time by then.

“Right. Good to know.”

Edward turned quiet then, brows furrowed together, which was in no way a good sign. Henry had set out to make his friend speak, not to plunge him into reminiscence. He quickly blew off his smoke and waved an impatient hand. “You were saying?”

“I was… Yes, as I was saying... the whole business was a massive nightmare. Richard threw a fucking coup. A coup! That’s what it was! Not to mention what he did to my sister Beth, which I suspect you know already— and yet he made the company lose tons of clients by sheer stupidity alone. Fucking cunt.”

“And yet he’s awaiting trial as we speak.”

“And yet he’s awaiting trial.” Ed nodded slowly after him. “For bribery and money laundering no less.” He crossed and uncrossed his ankles. His left leg was twitching. “I say that bastard should have gone to prison. Small price for what he did to Beth, that’s what I think.”

Normally, Edward Woodville was an exceptionally good-natured chap. He would get flustered and apologise profusely whenever he thought he had been discourteous to anyone in particular. Yet, there were moments when he gave way to righteous indignation. He would flare up whenever politics or social justice was brought into debate (something that happened often at happy hour, occasions that ended up with Ed volunteering to pay for the next round as a way of apologising for ranting).

It had not been Henry’s intention to get his friend so riled up over the issue of Richard York, but maybe he could use that to some advantage. Henry stared at the cigarette burning between his middle and forefinger for a few seconds — smoke ascending, white paper burning — before he chose to speak again.

“You don’t intend to stay at François’ for long, do you?” He languorously made his way to the wooden bench. _CITY OF LONDON_ , the carved letters read. “I reckon it’s more like a…” The smoke fell and rose out of his lungs. “... temporary job, perhaps?”

Ed sat up straight and leaned forward. Elbows over his knees, hands clasped, poised like a cat tuning his ears to listen. “Henry, old chap. What exactly are you proposing?”

 _Ever too forward_.

“Edward, my friend, what if told you that I can make you rich?”

A pause, the sound of the wind coming through where the roof should have been, then a sputtering laughter. Ed got up from the bench and went to Henry's side, hands shoved inside his pockets. “Now there’s a nice one, mate. A nice one, indeed. Do _you_ want to be rich?”

Henry blinked, surprised that anyone would make such a naïve question. “Is the Pope catholic?” He splayed his hands at his sides. “Come on, Ed. I’m awfully serious here.”

Edward only shook his head. Henry decided to change his strategy.

“What of your old plan, that one where you went on a mission to… Nepal, was it? What was that again?” Henry resumed his promenade with slow, idle steps. “You wanted to go… build some houses, is that right? Grow some crops, teach some English… fight off some humanitarian crisis.”

“Why do you ask? Are you planning to join me?”

Henry snorted. Sometimes it seemed that Edward was still in his _"I want-to-be-a-firefighter"_ phase. Going to some distant country to volunteer might sound like a far-fetched idea to Henry and yet… wasn’t Lizzie made of the same streak? Wasn’t she at some charity fair to raise money for the homeless of London at that same moment?

“Listen, I’m not having a laugh. Do you want to go to Gaza, to Syria? I applaud you, I admire you even.” Henry stubbed out his cigarette before flinging it away. “I want to help you achieve those noble aspirations of yours… and help myself in the process too, of course.”

Henry stopped in front of a glassless gothic window. In its long lean design, its pointed arches reached high towards the missing ceiling. They framed a view to just the tip of The Shard, the tallest building in the UK, a point rising above the city like a shattered piece of glass spearing the sky. Edward joined him.

“It’s nothing illegal, I suppose?”

Henry’s thin smile unwound into a grin full of promise. “Hardly.”

“Well, I’m listening.” Ed crossed his arms over his chest, shifting expectantly. The wind had miraculously stopped.

“My uncle and I have plans for a startup.” Henry began slowly, prompting them both to keep walking around the ruins. “We’re aiming to provide a complete range of fund choices for investors wanting to delve into the cryptocurrency market. What we want is to apply data science into a clean, user-friendly platform. We have an app in the making and everything, but…”

“But you need investors to use your clean, user-friendly platform?” Ed shot him a knowing glance. “Why do I get the feeling that old Mr. York, God rest his soul, has something to do with your plan?”

Henry was still wearing his easy smile. “Well, you see. Regardless of his brother’s best... intentions…” He waved a hand as if saying: _or so one might say_. “The eventual collapse of the company means that, for us, there’s an opening in the market.” He turned to look at his friend squarely. “You were strategically placed at York’s and I need your intel.”

“Oh, I see. First you get his daughter and then his clients, is that right?" Ed chuckled. “You’re not one to pass up an opportunity, are you?”

“Well,” Henry adjusted his scarf, perfectly innocent face turning into a devious grin. “You know me full well, you said that yourself.”

Henry’s phone, which he had ignored for some time by then, buzzed with a text. He fumbled over his satchel to get to his folder.

“Here’s our mission statement if you want to have a proper look—” He paused, adjusting his glasses. “Do you... want a day or two to think about it, perhaps? To be sufficiently clear, this is a job offer.”

Edward shrugged, and his huff of laughter cut the air with a steamy barb. “Well, why not? Bring it over, I guess.”

Inside his pocket, Henry’s phone buzzed yet again. He had too much of what people considered to be OCD to ignore it for too long. 

> **Lizzie**
> 
> _Hey darling, are you home?_ _It’s all finished here, so I’m coming over xx_
> 
> _Actually just stopped at a shop.  
>  _ _I feel like celebrating tonight! xx_

He stared at the text for a couple of seconds, bemused. 

> **Henry  
>  **
> 
> _Celebrating?_ _  
> __P.S.: I’m not home yet._

He was about to ask what was the cause of celebration when the three little dots appeared. 

> **Lizzie  
>  ** _  
> __What do you think of this piece?_

Henry opened the attached picture to reveal a bra: a lacy blue thing dangling off the hanger. Whimsy, almost see-through fabric. Wrought with flowers and vines, baby blue. Henry felt a smug half-smile rising up on him. He turned the other way to type. 

> **Henry**
> 
> _I think it’s probably too expensive to be_ _lying on my floor eventually._
> 
> **Lizzie**
> 
> _Oh? Is that so?_

“Hey, I’ve got a question here if you don’t mind.”

“Right.” Henry quickly typed a _definitely._ “Just a minute.” He tucked away his phone and went over to his friend again with a blank face, perfectly composed. “So?”

“When it says here that—”

His mobile buzzed again. “Sorry, just a second.”

He unlocked his screen to see yet another picture, a mirror selfie to be exact: Lizzie, bathed in the strange warm light of the changing room, from the waist up dressed in nothing but the aforementioned bra. The rose pendant on her gold necklace followed the curve of her collarbone to dip between her breasts.

“ _Jesus Christ_.” He muttered under his breath. Just as he had thought, that piece of lingerie was positively see-through.

“Are you alright there?”

Henry hurriedly locked off his screen, feeling the heat creeping up his neck. “Yeah...” And, carefully looking over his shoulder, feeling like a sort of criminal, he unlocked it again. 

> **Lizzie**
> 
> _What do you think now?_

He was not supposed to type what he was about to.

> **Henry**
> 
> _I think we ought to put it to test first._ _See how it looks on my floor._
> 
> **Lizzie**
> 
> _Oh I thought you might say that ;)  
>  _ _So… are we testing it or not?_

Knowing Lizzie, he was positive she would take off everything but the bra. Oh yes, she would make sure of it.

_No, no, no, no!_

Henry reached under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. He should _not_ be thinking of that now! He should not be thinking… Henry ran a hand over his hair, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. _Oh for heaven’s sake!_ He cast a quick glance at his co-worker, diligently looking over the handed papers, and typed again. 

> **Henry**
> 
> _I’ll meet you there in 10. x_

He shuffled his feet back to Edward. “So… I’m going.”

“Oh, is something the matter? I thought we were discussing this?” Ed gave him a look of genuine concern, which didn’t help Henry’s conscience at all.

“Something’s turned up, yeah. We’ll talk later.” Henry could hardly tell his friend he was on his way to shag his niece, could he? “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to email a copy to you.”

“Is everything alright?”

Henry shoved his folder back inside his satchel. “Yeah, this conversation’s not over yet. Just— just delayed.”

“Okay...”

“Yeah! See you… um, this Monday. I guess.”

His sentence was ended with a murmured, offhanded " _who knows",_ but he didn’t see the look of utter bewilderment on his friend’s face. Henry had already turned away in his haste to get home, windswept coat flapping behind his steps. Oh, that his feet could take him fast enough! The air in London felt crisp and clear that day  _—_ a whole city ripe for the taking, but only one destination on his mind. By God! Love had inane ways to turn a man’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
>  
> 
> I aged up Margaret Pole so she could be Lizzie's flatmate in this story. I hope none of you will mind it too much.  
> Also, Lizzie's necklace is the one Henry gave her last fic!
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading! Drop me a comment if you have any questions or if you feel like leaving a little note.
> 
> _________________
> 
> Edward Woodville, Lord Scales: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Woodville,_Lord_Scales
> 
> St Dunstan-in-the-East:  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BcQJ3RsByj-/  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BcSDxqNBGsS/


	3. Shades of White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warm nostalgic feel of childhood bundled up in bubble wrap — a music box playing, its lid suspended in air, ballerina doll forever dancing. Beethoven’s Für Elise on repeat as it spun and spun and spun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you may have noticed, my chapters usually consist of two separate scenes. Feel free to take a pause in between and come back later to read the rest. I would apologise for the length of this chapter but as I take too long to update, I think it's only fair to offer you a long(ish) chapter. This one is all from Lizzie's POV.

She didn’t know what made her wake up. What sound, or movement, or pressure, had made the bed shift ever so slightly causing her eyes to open. It was still dark outside, no shaft of sunlight could be seen sneaking under the blinds to spill gold over the carpet. The room was clad in gloom, grey hues and shadows receding, like a drowned cabin suspended in time. Lizzie didn’t know what it was, she only knew that she had woken up as a warm fuzzy feeling pooled inside her, a faint buzzing over her ears, and as she rolled over to her other side, she knew: Henry, lying on his back, eyelids closed, his face blissfully serene.

It was a virtual miracle to be awake before him. Lizzie never understood how exactly he managed to go to sleep so late at night and still be able to wake up at such early hours in the morning, light of limb and clear of head. _Sleep is for the weak_ , he had once quipped with a dorky, almost-there wink. Silently yawning, she rubbed her eyes weakly. Perhaps Henry had gone to bed even later than usual the previous night. Only by then she must have been so far gone in her sleep that she hadn’t noticed a thing — neither the weight of his body pressing down on the mattress nor the lips brushing her temple for his usual goodnight kiss.

In truth, few things could wake Lizzie from her slumber (as according to Henry’s very words, she slept _quite like the dead_ ). Only she had not meant to wake up at his flat at all. She had not even warned Maggie she wouldn’t be back home that night. It was only that, as she was saying her goodbye — his glasses reflecting the laptop surface like a film screening, downing what was probably his third cup of coffee under the last two hours — he had held her wrist gently, eyes searching and suddenly soft.  _But won’t you stay the night?_

Lizzie scooted closer on the bed to watch over him, silently, propped on one elbow. She always loved him in the mornings, when his voice was all throaty and raspy and he had that soft look on his face — the gentleness of a newborn just come to light, the face of total completeness: everything was alright and everything was enough. Mornings when he still smelled fresh like his shower gel: lavender, with just a touch of nutmeg and the slightest scent of burnt wood. She ran a finger along the bridge of his long nose, felt him stirring.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Henry let out a deep sigh, voice coming out groggy. “I’m not sleeping, I’m resting my eyes.” He popped one eye open, sneakily, to shoot her a glance, then reached for his mobile on the nightstand. “As it is, I have exactly…” He squinted; his glasses were off somewhere else. “... Nine minutes before my alarm goes off.”

Oh, so she was just synched with his alarm, it seemed. Lizzie sorrowfully remembered it was Thursday, and even if she didn’t have any lectures that day, it was still a weekday and Henry still had to go to his nine-to-five. She sighed unhappily and hugged him close, nudging his cheek with her nose. His skin felt smooth and minty, smelling just like his aftershave lotion.

“Don’t go just yet.”

Her words were just above a whisper, but he curled his fingers on her cotton nightdress, one of the two she always left at his place. He ran his knuckles along her spine, the bump of his graduation ring pressing against her back. It made Lizzie feel the irresistible urge to cover his whole face with kisses: his jaw, his closed eyelids, the tip of his nose, the space between his eyebrows. He started to laugh under her ministrations, ribcage shaking under her weight and voice booming close to her ears.

“God, you spoil me too much!”

Lizzie gave him another kiss. “Where’s the fun if I don’t?”

"Not fair. How am I supposed to wake up when you're not here?"

She chuckled, running the pad of her forefinger along the length of his eyebrows. Then she gently started to massage his brow bone all up to his forehead.

His eyes closed, he smiled and hummed, as serene as a baby. “I like when you do that.”

“Do you?”

Oh yes, she knew that he did. Lizzie knew that under that ice-cool, self-sufficient exterior he showed to the world, Henry liked being pampered, liked to be cared for with all the pomp fit for a king. She pressed her nose into the crook of his neck to kiss his windpipe, felt it bobbing up under her lips. She resumed her trail of kisses then: on his chin, along the column of his neck, on the hollow of his throat. “Do you?” She laughed against his skin, each punctuation a kiss.

 _Do you, do you, do you_.

In all of their time together, Henry seemed to have a special talent to be busy. But they had made a habit of meeting at his place for sweet nothings: idle talk as he poured himself more coffee, kettle boiling and chit-chatting, biscuits left where he could reach so she could make sure he was eating: hobnobs and custard creams, digestives and chocolate bourbons (he liked sweet foods, Lizzie had noticed, though he never said a word about it). Sometimes Lizzie liked to pour him tea instead of coffee, and Henry would take up his mug and keep typing and working on his laptop as if nothing had changed. Only after what seemed like a minute, he would lick his lips and utter _“Tea” —_ emotionlessly, not a hint of surprise or displeasure in his voice, just like someone at the supermarket ticking an item off their list.

He was always so _focused_ on whatever he was doing, she could practically see the little gears moving inside his head. Sometimes he would stop and just stare at her, and Lizzie would raise her eyebrows, confused, only to realise he was thinking of something else entirely. Other times, when she had been quiet for a longer stretch of time, he would nudge her on to talk of something, anything. It helped him concentrate, he had once claimed.

Her string of kisses descended lower. She got under the covers to kiss a line along his stomach, T-shirt pushed up and out of the way to feel the warmth of his skin. Under her touch, his lean muscles were pulled tight. She heard his muffled voice coming from above the duvet like a shaky breath.

“Lizzie…”

She was stopped before she met her destination. Just as she reached down his navel, Lizzie was pulled back up to meet his lively, glassy eyes. Eyes that were trying hard to focus.

“Lizzie, I need to get up.” He gestured towards his suit hanging on the doorknob, button-up shirt and tie ironed and ready to go.

 _You need to get it up_ , she thought, feeling incredibly wicked.

She fell back to sit on his lap, thighs pressing his hips from either side and into the mattress. She felt him shifting slightly under her, felt him holding his breath for a second, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling. She gave a subtle roll of her hips as if fixing herself in place.

“What do you want me to do?”

The voice she used was silky, her eyelashes batted coyly. She flung her hair all over one shoulder, met his gaze with doe eyes. She could be the perfect picture of innocence, were the circumstances any different — if she wasn’t, in fact, balancing herself on his lap, feeling every part of him stirring against her inner thigh.

He drew a sharp breath, voice hollow. “Come here.”

Lizzie slid back over his chest and he placed a hand on her cheek to skim his thumb over her bottom lip. She took just the tip in her mouth, inviting, and off went his last drop of self-restraint. He weaved his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer, kissing her full on the mouth, rolled her on her back to kiss her deeper still.

That wonderful sensation was back again: fingers carded through his hair, legs laced together. She slid a hand to pick at the waistband of his pyjama bottoms when Henry pulled back with a groan.

“No, no, no. We need to get up!” He shook his head at her protest. “Yes darling, we do! Don’t you have things to do today?”

She bit his earlobe, just the slightest pressure of teeth. “No.”

Of course she had tons of coursework to do, an essay to finish and a quiz to revise, but all of that could wait. It all could wait if it meant she could spend a lazy morning in bed with him.

“What about that meeting with your mother? Isn’t it today?”

“Ugh, _Henry!_ ” Lizzie let her head fall back on the pillow. “Why did you have to remind me?”

“What? You don’t want to tell her?” He removed the hand covering her face so she could meet his eyes again, clear like two pools of blue.

“It’s not that.” She smoothed his sides reassuringly, evening out the creases on the fabric of his T-shirt. “It’s just that… Isn’t it much more fun when we do it in secret? Just the two of us?”

She adopted a conspiratorial, whispery tone, but Henry only shook his head.

“Not when I want to tell the world that you’re my girl!” He ducked his head to kiss the spot where her neck met collarbone, moved to kiss the other side. “Not when I want to shout it from the rooftops!”

Lizzie was laughing by now. His breath on her skin was ticklish. “Your girl, you say?”

“Yes.” His smile was wolfish. “Mine.”

A buzzing followed by metallic chimes came loudly from the nightstand. They sighed in unison, two heavy aggravated sounds. Oh how intensely Lizzie hated that alarm! Their eyes crossed together for just a second before Henry dragged his body up and swung his legs off the bed to stop his mobile. Lizzie sat up, hugging her legs and resting her chin on her knees in what she was sure was a comical desolate position. She could swear he had started replying to his emails by then, so she was surprised when he turned back to her.

“I've changed my mind.”

“Oh?” She raised a tentative eyebrow. “You have?”

Henry simply blinked. “I think ten extra minutes won’t hurt.”

A smile broke free across her face, flaming her cheeks, giddy and bubbly and unrepentantly sweet. His hand found her ankle and Henry pulled her across the bed, and soon the sound of her giggling was filling up the room, ascending the walls in clouds of happiness. The day was breaking. Outside in the street, church bells were singing.

 

* * *

 

Brompton Road.

Walking with her mother around South Kensington always felt like taking an express train back to the past. People jogging at random times of the day, darling babies wheeled over in fancy prams and buggies. Red-bricked buildings, white Victorian façades, pristine porch-fronted houses. Just down Exhibition Road, visions of the trips she had taken with her sisters to museumland flashed across her mind — new exhibition tours at the V&A, obligatory stops to the ice rink at the Natural History Museum every Christmas. There was a distinctive feminine quality to the neighbourhood, as if the ghost of Queen Victoria still reigned over its fashionable parks and high streets, the sceptre held by her statue at Kensington Gardens still primly poised in her hand.

The walk to Knightsbridge crowded her mind with visions from the past. Something about the way her mother’s heavy-lidded eyes bore into hers, the way they blinked slowly, almost owlishly. Memories of her mother receiving her dolled up friends for coffee and tea, socialite ladies with busy schedules bouncing between recitals and charity galas. Her parents receiving guests for dinner. Fresh flower arrangements straight from Columbia Road crowding up the living room. A warm nostalgic feel of childhood bundled up in bubble wrap — a music box playing, its lid suspended in air, ballerina doll forever dancing. Beethoven’s _Für Elise_ on repeat as it spun and spun and spun.

“What do you think, Lizzie? Neuhaus or Godiva?”

Her mother smoothed the chocolate box with careful, long fingers. Earlier, Lizzie had wanted nothing more than to talk to her in some quiet café in the whereabouts. Yet, there they were at Harrods: the largest (and possibly most crowded) department store in Europe. The area in which it stood was called the  _Tiara Triangle_ , home to designer boutiques, Russian oligarchs and Qatari princes. A ghost town at night, no window showing traces of life, during the day those streets were crawling with devouring consumers.

“I think I like Neuhaus better.”

“I suppose you do.” The ghost of a smile graced her mother’s features. “Do you remember that holiday in Belgium? You were so little back then, I don’t know if you recall. Your father had gone on a business trip to the Continent.”

Lizzie could not have been older than six at the time, but how could she ever forget it? She remembered walking around the Grand Place in Brussels hand in hand with her sister. Cece had been so thrilled to see the Manneken Pis, had been delighted at seeing the little cherub statue dressed in different clothes every day. “ _Look, mummy! The little man is peeing!”_ she had giggled, jumping up and down excitedly. The whole time, though, Lizzie had her eyes fixed only on her father. Back then it had felt like an eternity since she had last seen him.

The girls had gone to Brussels with a purpose, a sweet delightful surprise: their mother was carrying their third child — baby Edward, whose arrival was as anxiously expected as that of a crown prince. Lizzie remembered what it felt like to wait for a little brother. Dear moments that would never come back to them.

“I remember. Dad took us to the Neuhaus factory shop.” It was her turn to grow wistful, misty-eyed. “I don’t think I’ll ever see that much chocolate in my life again.”

Her mother, dressed in gossamer-grey cashmere, nodded absentmindedly. She had grown increasingly muted and wan since her father’s passing, though her elegance still remained intact, pristine. Spearhead posture.

“Neuhaus it is, then. But remind me not to spoil the girls too much. Especially Bridget.”

At her puzzled questioning, her mother simply waved a dismissive hand. “We need to pay attention to her diet. I mean to send her to the Royal Ballet School.”

“But... Bridget is six?”

The White Lodge, home to the Royal Ballet School, was all the way down in Richmond Park. Lizzie could hardly picture little Bridget, so loving and sweet, and so young still (a literal child!) trapped in the rigorous routine of a ballet dancer.

“Of course I’m not sending her _now_ , Lizzie. There are still years of training ahead of her. But I will of course do everything to see her succeed. Her dance teacher says she’s got a real calling for the profession.”

Lizzie pursed her lips disapprovingly, but her mum settled hers into a definitive hard line. Elizabeth Woodville had never been one to be moved by criticism. She was unwavering in her convictions, undisturbed and unshaken, like an ice-white queen. “One day, when you have your own children, you’ll understand.”

They were leaving the Food & Wine section. At the entrance, the golden Egyptian escalator dating back to the 1920s went up and down with customers. Everywhere they turned to there was green and gold, art déco design drawn in expensive geometric lines. Tiffany glasses, iridescent peacocks plastered on the walls. They had tried to go to the terrace restaurant on the fourth floor, but as it was closed for refurbishment, their afternoon tea would have to wait another day. Her mother was leaving, and Lizzie hadn’t yet said a thing about what she had planned to tell.

“Mum, would you stay a bit longer?” She laid a tentative hand on her mother's arm. “I need to buy a dress.” Still, still Lizzie hesitated. She smiled, swallowing down her uneasiness. “I would… very much like your opinion.”

Her mother gave her a congenial smile, ever so gracious. She looped an arm with hers, switching directions and steering her towards the floor to the designer boutiques. She tapped her hand, perhaps sensing her daughter’s hesitation. “And what’s the occasion, after all? Is this a special dress?”

The hall was tunnelled with mannequins on both sides, locked in individual showcases like exotic birds ravished from tropical lands. Touch-me-not clothes, golden glow, privilege for the upper class and the nouveau-riche money. Lizzie slowly found her voice, or rather, her courage.

“You see, it is for… it’s for Henry’s birthday.”

“ _Henry_.” Her mother pursed her lips wryly, still keeping her eyes on the showcases. “Now that’s a name you haven’t talked in a while, isn’t it? How is he?”

Lizzie stopped in her tracks, forcing her mother to turn and face her. “We’re dating.” She blurted out with no finesse whatsoever, holding onto her mother’s cool, pool-green gaze. “We have been for a while now.”

Her mother didn’t utter a word. She only lifted her finely sculpted eyebrows and nodded. She turned back to the mannequins, humming airily as if the bit of information her daughter had just shared with her was not new or entertaining in the least. Lizzie was positively befuddled at her reaction.

“Mum, are you… cross with me?” She jogged to catch up to her mother a few steps ahead of her. “Because—because I didn’t tell you, is that it?”

Her mother shot her a glance as if she was talking complete nonsense. “Lizzie, am I supposed to feign surprise?” Her gaze was hard for a second, though it changed almost immediately. “Of course you two are dating, dear. Do you think I didn’t know that, when every time you come home you just can’t be parted with your phone?” She huffed, fixing her earrings. “Always texting away, always smiling to the screen. Or better yet, when you come up with dodgy excuses as to why you can’t visit on the weekends?”

“I…” Lizzie felt crushed to the spot. “I…”

“No, I’m not cross with you.” Her mother said flatly, cutting her poor attempt at finding an excuse. Then, her expression softening somewhat, she took her arm again. “Come, Lizzie. Come along. We still have to find your dress.”

Her mother resumed their walking, leading her towards the designer racks. Marchesa and Ralph Lauren, Zimmermann and Kenzo, Gucci and Burberry. All those expensive price tags.

“So what stage is this thing on?” Her mother enquired as she went through the clothes rack, a saleswoman lingering diligently behind them. “Should I prepare myself to see my eldest walking down the aisle or...? Hmm? What do you think?”

Panic rose within her, and Lizzie sputtered disjointed excuses. _Too recent_. _Still figuring things out. Still haven’t graduated_. Why, Lizzie wondered despairingly, _just why_ all of a sudden everyone wanted to know whether she was going to get engaged or not? A six-month relationship wasn’t enough ground to make people want to get married. At least not in the twenty-first century, anyway.

“Of course I don’t mean _now_ , Lizzie. But in a few month’s time, perhaps? What do you say, hmm? Do you think Henry might make the proposal? You know, drop the knee, put a ring on it?”

“I don’t know.” Lizzie frowned, staring intently into the clothes rack. Perhaps if she stared at those dresses long enough she could make that topic go away.

That conversation was making her increasingly uncomfortable. Henry seemed serious enough about her, of course, but there were still some things she pushed to the back of her mind. For one, still to that day he hadn’t given her a spare key to his flat. Every time Lizzie went over she had to press the doorbell and wait for him to get in. But surely… surely that was just rushing through things, she shouldn't think much of it. 

Lizzie smoothed down the fabric of dresses she was hardly seeing. “I mean, he’s been so busy with work lately. I don’t think he’s got time to even think about it.”

“My dear, I’ve seen his type. His workload isn’t going anywhere. Trust me, it’ll probably get worse.” Her face fell noticeably at that, but her mother brushed it aside with a breezy chuckle. “But has he said the words? You know, those three little words?”

Lizzie felt her cheeks reddening. “The words?”

“Oh, you know.” Her mother pointed at herself, drew a heart in the air, pointed at Lizzie.

“Well, yes.” Lizzie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. _Why_ , why was she even discussing that with her mum? And why was she feeling so rattled, ill-at-ease? Henry _had_ said the words. Plenty of times, actually, but always in bed. Hoarsely, into her ear. _I fucking love you_.

“Now that’s good to know, isn’t it?” Her mother was examining a velvet midi dress. She held it at arm’s length, perusing the hanger with a clinical eye. “It’s not always like that.”

“What… what do you mean?”

Her mother dropped a hand to her hip, shooting her a glance as if she was about to lecture a child. “Lizzie, you have a pretty face, you’ve got a nice body. Sometimes that’s all men care about. Surely you must know that by now.”

“I…” _It’s not like that,_ she wanted to say. _He’s not like that._

“Oh, look at this one! It’s just your style.”

Her mother turned back to her with a slip dress. Its floral print was too flashy for Lizzie’s taste, but the real problem was the price tag.

“Mum, please let’s keep away from the most expensive brands. I’m buying it with Henry’s card.”

Her mother looked mortified. “Oh God, was he so cheap as to give you a spending limit?”

“No! No, he didn’t! It’s just that—it’s not—it’s not my money.” Her mother was giving her dress after dress for her to try and Lizzie was exasperating at the sheer quantity of fabric she was holding in her hands. “I just—I just don’t want to go overboard.”

“Darling, if it makes you feel better we can go to another section.” Her mother turned to the saleswoman, returning the absurd quantity of dresses she had taken off the hanger. She nodded affably at the woman before walking Lizzie to the next boutique, a practiced smile on her lips.

Elizabeth Woodville had always been regal, majestic in her countenance, though many had taken her poised elegance for coldness. She had the statuesque quality of a classical work of art: white-marble beauty, long limbs, graceful steps like gliding. A natural queen-like radiance that Lizzie had always strived to mirror as best as she could.

“Either way, it’s not like it’s a _free_ gift to you, is it?” Her mother sounded nonplussed as she went through another rack. “It’s  _his_ birthday but _you_ ’re getting a dress, so…” She tilted her head sideways. “Someone is expecting the kingly treatment, I see.”

“Mum!” She felt herself blushing again. “It’s not that!”

Her protest sounded too childish even to her ears. Why did she feel like her silly girl self whenever she was back with her mum? Why did she feel so inarticulate and powerless, flailing her arms around like a baby about to throw a crying fit?

“We have dinner reservations at the Shard. Do you know this restaurant, _Oblix_? It’s a smart dress type of situation.”

Lizzie had been dying to dine at that restaurant for months by then. It was located on the 32nd floor of the UK’s tallest building, so it boasted one of the best views to the London skyline. Lizzie was already prepared to watch the Square Mile glisten, to see Tower Bridge all lit up from up close as the Thames flowed silkily down bellow, live jazz playing and champagne flowing.

Her hands found a long white gown, silky and soft, so soft she actually stopped to have a good look at the item for the first time since she had entered the store. Lizzie only had to time to say she had liked it before she was ushered into the changing room, another saleswoman trailing behind them with other options that looked like carbon copies from the same item.

It was her mother who helped her out of her clothes and into the new dress — a camisole dress, sleeveless, with a draped neckline. Victoria Beckham. It ran smoothly around her shoulders and along her skin as she tucked it down.

“Come on now, dear. Chin up, shoulders down.”

Her mother was fixing her stance, straightening her posture. Lizzie had the unease feel of wandering back to her ballet lessons. The light coming from the bulbs above the mirror were harsh against her eyes. A glare, blazing against the satiny fabric of the dress, dove-white.

“You’ve put on weight.” She heard her mother say. Flatly, unemotional, as if reading the news on a broadsheet. “Those chai lattes you’re so fond of drinking? Too sugary. Too many carbs at once. You know what I do, I always take my tea dark.”

Lizzie spied her mother’s reflection in the mirror. Even after several pregnancies, she still had a slim figure. Her mother remained the most beautiful woman she had ever seen — she had had a career as a model, after all. In fact, she had met Lizzie’s father in the middle of a photoshoot. Elizabeth Woodville had been working with a photographer under the Albert Memorial when her father and his friends barged in announced. Rich, bantery lads in expensive suits on their way to an opening gala at the Royal Albert Hall, tipsy on gin and tonic.

“Really, dear.” Her mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You can’t just let yourself go now just because you’ve settled. Men don’t like that.”

Her reply came out sounding too close to what a petulant teenager might say. “Henry has not complained.”

Her mother huffed. _“As he shouldn’t._  Lizzie, I like Henry alright, yes, but let’s be honest here. You’re too far out of his league. He should consider himself lucky to keep you at all.”

Her mother zipped up her dress, earning a grunt in the process as it pinched her skin. She held up her daughter’s hair to see how a hairdo would fit into the picture. She turned Lizzie’s chin slightly from side to side, examining her in the mirror. Green on hazel eyes.

“Beautiful.” Her mother said at last, nodding approvingly.

Lizzie averted her gaze.

“Now, don’t take me wrong.” Her mum gently ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m happy you two got together. I do. I like Henry.” She put her hands on her shoulders, fixing her posture again. “I know he’s going places. Surely I’d rather see my daughter with a man who’s got ambition than with someone that has resigned himself to be a nobody forever—”

“Was it why you married my father?” Lizzie stared at her feet, barely visible under the hem of the dress. “Because he was a _somebody_?”

 _Gold digger,_ the unspoken word hovered between them. Decades of her mother as the outsider in the York family, the grasping woman that had seduced their golden boy, came flooding over them. Divorced, working class family, Labour-voting friends. So many flaws that had hindered the acceptance of her parent’s marriage to the rest of the family. When Lizzie had the courage to raise her eyes to the mirror again, she found her mother unnervingly cold. Hellenistic piece of sculpture looking back at her from the depths of time.

“I’ve heard that from many people in my life. I never thought I’d hear it from you.”

“Mother—” Her eyes filled with hot tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me. Please, please, do.” The words were flying out of her mouth incoherently. She wiped a tear streaking down her cheek. 

 _Pathetic, pathetic._  Oh, she was always so quiet, wasn’t she? Everyone said so, then why did she choose to open her mouth that day? To embarrass herself, to break her mother’s heart?

“Shh, child, shh. Of course I forgive you.” Her mother turned her around and hugged her, smoothing the hair along her back. Lizzie was rocked side to side like a baby. “I know you’re just upset at what I said, I can see that. I _know_ you. You’re my darling girl.”

Lizzie pulled back to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. It wouldn’t do to spoil the dress when she hadn’t even bought it yet. She nodded weakly when her mother asked whether she was feeling any better. She did, in a sort of drowsy, numb state, as if she didn't quite believe she had said something so ungrateful, so inconsiderate.

“I’m only trying to help you, Lizzie. You think you know how the world works, but you don’t. You’re barely an adult! What do you know of the world?” Her mother squeezed her arm, searched her gaze and held onto it firmly. Eyes that never seemed to blink. “Let me tell you something: it’s beastly out there for us women. I’ve had my share of men’s cruelty, and I'm tired. I don’t want you to go through the same things.”

Her mother reached out to wipe another tear. “ _Find a man that keeps you well_ , your nan once told me, _and stick to him_.”

The words were meant to soothe her, but they only made her eyes sting more bitterly. Lizzie nodded along all the same, trying to dissipate the awkwardness that still lingered between them. The saleswoman outside must have been rather impatient by then.

“Now, tell me.” Her mother resumed her usual cool tone. Ever a woman to go forward, she pressed on. “Which colour are you planning to buy?” She opened the door and beaconed the saleswoman in. _Lily_ , her name tag read. The woman gave her mother a black variation of the same camisole dress.

“What do you think, hm? How does he like you?” Her mother tilted her head looking at the dress, trying to decide what would look best on her daughter. “Angel or siren? White or black?”

Folded between the hands of the saleswoman, Lizzie saw the flash of another colour.

“Red.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
>  
> 
> As always, thank you for your patience and encouragement.  
> Do you have a question? Drop it down below! Comments are always welcomed x


	4. Nine-to-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just this one plan and God willing, and the stars, and fate, or whatever other supernatural force people looked up to for help, Henry would never need to suck up to anyone ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same day as last chapter, now from Henry's POV.

Henry slid a finger along the edge of his business card, felt its sharpness pressing against his skin. He tapped it against the flat surface of his desk,  _tap tap tap_ , tapped it from side to side, corners spinning, stacked the card up along three other neat piles. HENRY TUDOR, C.I.F. LONDON. His office was small, but the view from his window could be considered generous enough. All that cloud-filtered light invading his room — tall glass sheets held together by clamps from floor to ceiling could hardly make it cosy. Across the road, another commercial building offered its contents like the offerings of a food vending machine, greenish artificial glow shining on the shelves. Packed office floors, industrial carpeting, modern design furniture: desks, swivel chairs, printer stands, workstations without end. People working like busy bees, wax cell to wax cell. It should be enough for Henry. It wasn’t.

Edward Woodville, in his pinstripe brown suit, was leaning against the door.

“So, Morton and Oxford… have they given you an answer yet?”

Henry nodded. A single lowering of the head followed by a single blink. “They have.”

Raindrops started to run along the window panes, a light fall tapping against the glass to cast watery shadows across the room. Leopard-like spots danced on the carpeted floor. Out in the street, car horns began their faint whingeing, umbrellas bobbed along the pavement like fish swimming in a stream.

“Which was, exactly...?”

Henry turned from the window only to be confronted by his co-worker's question mark. He felt a small, unapologetically smug smile grow on him as he turned to face Edward, head tilting sideways.

“Did you think I was going into this alone?”

There were the Stanleys, certainly, and his own uncle Jasper who had brought along a Welsh investor, Rhys Thomas — a good old brand of nepotism, or rather, a family-helping-family business. But the two Johns (as his uncle called them), Oxford and Morton, were some of the biggest magnate names in the country.

Ed huffed a laugh and raised his eyebrows as if asking  _how_ , but Henry only offered a nonchalant wave of his hand.

“Strategically placed acquaintances. And a bit of charm, of course.”

Henry held no illusions about himself. His reputation as a charmer was obviously non-existent. Yet it seemed circumstances had turned him into the very soul of charisma somehow: that centuries-old tradition of  _pandering to the rich_. Just this one plan and God willing, and the stars, and fate, or whatever other supernatural force people looked up to for help, Henry would never need to suck up to anyone ever again.

Edward mockingly shook his head from side to side, clinking his small cup of coffee on the saucer. They had brought the cafetière all the way from the kitchen, but the coffee maker was Henry’s own, complete with a name tag and a locked cupboard where it was safely stored, kept away from grubby hands. Any co-worker wanting to use his appliance would have to seek out Henry’s permission first, something he only gave to a selected few.

Henry stood up and went over to the window, hands in the pockets of his suit jacket, eyes on the street. “Have you thought of any other names for the team?”

He heard his friend shifting his stance on the carpet.

“Daubeney should be of use, I think. And so should Guildford, that is, if you can get his father to invest too. They both came over with me, you know.” He shifted again. “At the time Richard started blundering about and people were jumping the boat.”

Yes, Henry had thought about those two, especially since they were also working for François now. He had observed them many times before, though now they hardly ever bumped shoulders at the office anymore. Henry had asked Bray to do a little research for him. His mother’s solicitor had many uses. Many abilities and many uses.

He ran a hand along his tartan tie — squares of dark green and navy blue, lines of dark red —  and adjusted his tie clip in place. “Anyone else in mind?”

“Richard Hill, I think, and Willoughby.”

Henry gave his slight nod again. “Good.”

Down on the street, his eyes found the person he had been waiting for. Henry checked the hour on his wristwatch. Rolex, swiss made. It was just about time.

“Find a way to broach the topic, we’ll need this list soon. Have you got pen and paper?”

Edward looked around. “Do you mean, with me? Right here?”

“Where else?”

What type of man didn’t carry a notepad with him at all times?

“Right. I can type it on my phone, though. Just so you know.”

Henry ignored the barb. “Here’s what I need you to do.” He went to his desk and wrote a name and an email address on the back of one of his cards. “I need you to send this person a list of all of our associates. He was a friend of your sister’s from what I’ve heard, so he should be glad to hear our proposal from you.”

Edward placed the card inside his pocket, slowly nodding. “I must say you’re turning into quite the boss, Tudor.”

Henry took his overcoat, draping it over his arm on his way to the door. “Well, I thought you had _agreed_ for me to be your boss. So.” Ed snorted and Henry clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint next round. What is it going to be, the usual lager?”

Edward issued an indignant huff. “It’s  _Drynuary_!”

“Is it? What a pity.” As if Henry didn’t know his friend’s obsession with health and fitness, crossfit routines and paleo diet. “Tragic, really. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Ed eyed his umbrella ready in hand. “Where are you going?”

Henry took out his cigarette pack and shook it twice between thumb and forefinger, a simple enough reminder for Ed to roll his eyes and wave him off.

“Go on, go on.”

The lift took him all the way down to the ground floor. He left the building by a side exit that led to a little piazza where an old telephone box stood, solitary in its red uselessness. Henry opened up his umbrella, lit up a cigarette, and waited. Two minutes passed. It wasn’t long before Henry saw Thomas Grey returning from his usual run to the corner shop, new cigarette pack in hand. He stopped mid-stride the moment he saw Henry at his preferred spot for smoking, ham-pink face immediately going white.

Once the three of them — Henry, Ed and Tom — had passed many coffee breaks together, but that sort of camaraderie of convenience had gone downhill many months before. Not that Henry had ever been too keen on Thomas Grey, not at all. Tom was like a price tag that had come attached to Edward, a nuisance one was obliged to pay for. Slouchy posture, smug smile, bad jokes that were only ever occasionally funny. Yet, nothing could have prepared Henry for that bizarre scene that took place some late evening, a Friday Henry had stayed back at the office to work overtime on a project.

The picture had been clear enough: making his way to toilet, Henry found Tom sniffing cocaine off the countertop. He was holding a cut straw in his hands, tip hovering over the powder finely drawn into geometric lines. Tom’s eyes, bloodshot and frantic, crossed his own in the mirror for what had seemed like an embarrassingly long stretch of time, but what in reality must have been only two seconds. Both turned their way and acted like nothing had happened for the next few days, but the certainty of the fact was just there, floating between them: what had been seen could not be unseen.

Henry had always had a vague notion about Tom’s drug habits. To put it simply, he knew that his co-worker took hard stuff, stuff much worse than cocaine. Sometimes Tom would go around the office grinding his teeth, all runny nose and runny eyes, head snapping and nail-biting as only a blatant list of withdrawal symptoms could do. Yet, after that peculiar incident, with a bit of prodding here and there, Henry also found out about Tom’s schemes and dealings around the office. The so-called sandwiches wrapped in foil, for example, were one. If Tom didn’t know he knew, he probably suspected it.

Under the span of his umbrella, Henry raised his eyebrows and smiled apologetically — the most quintessential British smile, painful in its forced cheerfulness — shrugging and gesturing at the rain to account for his presence at the unusual spot. Tom himself forced a smile of his own, stopping some steps away but looking unsure of whether to go or stay. Shifting from foot to foot; a bouncing prey that didn’t know where to run, only that the hunter was near, near, near.

“Alright, mate?”

 _Mate_. Henry almost winced at the term. He had never addressed Tom like that. Still, it was better than calling him  _fam_ or  _bruv_ or any other rage-inducing term of camaraderie. He hoped Tom wouldn’t notice the fake chumminess.

“Yeah… Not bad, you know.” Tom hooked a finger on his collar. “You?”

A practiced, commercial smile. “Never better.”

Henry tore his gaze away, ignoring Tom’s presence for a moment if only to let him more at ease. He took a long drag off his cigarette, pretending to be interested in the passers-by huddling together under the building across the road. Soon he heard Tom patting down his clothes, searching his pockets for something he couldn’t quite retrieve.

“Do you need a light?”

His extended arm could hardly give time for his co-worker to think. Tom accepted the lighter practically shoved at his face without a second blink.

“Thanks. I must have dropped mine somewhere.”

Yes, Tom had dropped it — _on his very own desk_. His lighter had been lying there so conspicuously, it had not been hard for Henry to sweep a hand and make it vanish. From the corner of his eye, he watched Tom take a series of short drags: tense shoulders, a trickle of sweat running down the length of his face. Henry’s little stratagems were clearly not working. He could resort to a harmless topic such as the weather to ease out the conversation or...

“Look, I’m going to cut right to the chase.”

Tom looked up, small eyes blazing in alarm.

Henry flicked off his cigarette stub. “Look, you don’t like me very much. And I don’t like you very much either.”

His co-worker tried to protest, but Henry pressed on. “Hold on, hold on. Yes, we don’t like each other very much, but we can still be allies. You do me a favour, nice and clean, and I’ll pay you up another.” He shot his co-worker a square look. “In fact, I’ve been doing you a favour for the longest time, haven’t I?”

“I don’t know what you're on about.” His co-worker’s face, which had been devoid of all colour up to that point, had turned stormy and inflamed.

Henry blinked innocently. “I think you know exactly what I mean. You haven’t been quite… discreet… in your recent dealings.” He could see Tom felt insulted by that, yet Henry ignored him, went off on a condescending tangent filled with fake camaraderie. “Of course I can’t blame you. One does get sloppy from time to time. Especially in such a nerve-wrecking business such as—”

“I won’t just stand here and listen to this!”

“Why, then, do you still stand?”

Tom blinked, red-faced and blotchy, and Henry offered him a magnanimous smile. “Look, I’m not trying to put you up on the spot. What I’m asking you here is simple: a favour for a favour.”

“And what would you have me do?” Tom was quick enough to ask, if only to show him he was unafraid. “You don’t strike me as someone who needs my…  _help_.”

“No, not that sort of help, definitely not that.” Henry chuckled breezily. “I need you to—” He stopped to check the time on his watch, shifted a bit in place. Suspense was always a useful tool for keeping one on his toes. “—I need you to get Landais off my neck. As it is, you need only to create a big enough distraction.”

Pierre Landais, François’ assistant, was like the company’s hunting hound, always sniffing around the business. He had been searching for a way to get rid of Henry for over a year by then. The last thing Henry wanted was to furnish him a good enough reason to get him out on the street now that he had plans of his own.

“Why?” Tom eyed him suspiciously. “You want me to lend you a hand, alright. But now you’ll tell me what it is that you and Ed have been plotting behind closed doors.” He huffed a white cloud of his own smoke. “Why, you think I didn’t notice it? What’s in there for me?”

“ _My friend, my friend._ There's no need for you to concern yourself now.” Henry lowered his voice to a confidential tone, waving a noncommittal hand. Every word contained a sous-entendu. “There’s a place for everyone once the first step is over, I can assure you.”

There was something akin to satisfaction at seeing Tom perk up at such a nebulous, barely-there promise. At seeing his small eyes begin to glitter, his lopsided smile taking form. The face of a man about to have a much desired meal, mouth practically salivating. His mother always told him gluttony and greed were two sides of the same coin of sin.

“You’re on the quality control team and I need you to get nosy with... Say, the Vannes project. Start checking reports, pester our company’s most beloved assistant with all sorts of questions, why don’t you.” Henry waved a hand. “I don’t care what you do, I just need you to keep him off my ground. At his wits’ end, if possible.”

“Why, look at you, Tudor.” The smile Tom offered him was feline. “You might pass off as an uptight prick, but I always knew you were crooked.”

Henry blinked, smiling back. It was a pity Tom was too much of a sod to see the sarcasm in it. “Well, then I’m glad we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

As they shook hands, the rain — meagre and grey — stopped its running. Henry pulled back his umbrella, shaking off the water droplets on his way back to the office. “Guess we’ll see each other around— Oh,” He stopped on his tracks and turned back as if suddenly remembering something. “By the way, I found this in the bin. I think that might be yours?”

Henry reached into his breast pocket to retrieve Tom’s lost lighter. He tossed it back in a neat parabolic curve, but his co-worker almost dropped it in his struggle to catch it.

“Take care, won’t you.”

He had already turned his back when he heard the muttered ' _fucking bastard'._

 

* * *

 

When Henry finally left work, it was already pitch-black outside. The streets were packed. He had yet to dodge multiple co-workers on his way out, people walking on the same direction to get to the same tube station. He had to slow back his pace, offer them an apologetic shrug before crossing the road. _Sorry, going the other way. Yeah, so unfortunate. See you tomorrow._

He picked up a discarded _Evening Standard_ issue on his journey home. The newspaper offered a daily dose of everything taking place in London at the moment: building developments, property prices, traffic schemes, politics — apparently there was a light festival happening that week, _Lumiere London,_ all bright coloured lights projected on historical buildings — a gossip column or something that read like  a gossip column. Just plain boring nonsense to pass off the time. Most importantly, though, that newspaper was free. One had only to pick it up from a empty carriage seat for a lightweight read on their commute.

He was nose-deep on the thin recycled paper when, approaching his flat, he saw Lizzie sat on the steps leading up to it, flared peacoat pooling around her waist. _Shit_ , he thought, putting out his cigarette and waving off his smoke, _shit_ — He tried to conceal it most ungraciously, but Lizzie didn’t notice a thing. Her cheek was resting on a gloved fist, eyes fixed on the ground. He checked his breath for any traces of smoke — in vain, most likely —  and sped up to meet her.

“Lizzie! Darling, I didn’t know you were here—” He stopped mid-stride, and patted his coat in search of his phone. “Did you send me a text? I didn’t get any.”

“No, I did not.” Her eyes flitted from the ground to his face, then back to the pavement again. “I thought you might be busy, so I decided to just wait for you here.”

“... On the ground?” He tried, amicably. There were small puddles pooling across the pavement thanks to the rain earlier that afternoon. It was all very unsanitary, not to mention a bit shocking to see her out there alone in the wind, white bundle wrapped in wool with a gift bag attached. “You could get a cold out here. What were you thinking?”

Lizzie simply shrugged, then shot him a significant look. “You know why I couldn’t wait for you inside.”

Henry frowned. _You could’ve sent me a text or wait at the café down the road_ , he thought, but decided to go for an easier route. He hooked an arm around her elbow and placed a hand on her waist to lift her up. “Come on now, you’re going to get your clothes soiled.”

He got her to her feet and patted the back of her ivory coat, fixing her clothes. “See, you’ve got a bit of a smudge now.”

“Stop fussing over me,” Her small voice said, rising in tone. “It makes me feel like a doll!”

That took him aback. Henry retrieved his hand and let it fall by his side slowly, glasses slipping down his nose in sync. He tried to search her face, peeking blindly over the lenses before he pushed them back in. He couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong, especially as Lizzie only averted her gaze, lip pouting and eyes fixed on the ground, guiltily. He decided what to do. He could get home and change another time. Henry took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers to pull her along.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

His plan was to take her to some cosy Italian restaurant in Covent Garden, some small warm place with plenty of comfort food. The area was cheery, full with West End theatres and show bills casting their bright limelights. If they got lucky enough there could be some violinist performing at the Apple Market that night or—

They never made it to Covent Garden. Henry had forgotten how insanely crowded that area of London could get in the evenings. It was only then that he remembered the light festival. Was that why there were so many people on the street that night? A tourist stopped them on their way, asking for directions to Charing Cross station.

The man pronounced _Charing Cross_ just like Henry did when he had only just moved to London: _Chaaring Cross_. Of course it wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular — there were just too many stations with strange names that not even Londoners themselves could decide how to pronounce. Stupid names like _Marylebone,_ but also _Southwark, Vauxhall, Chiswick, Holborn, Balham, Greenwich_ — all those silent ‘l’s and ‘h’s and ‘w’s. Lizzie would always laugh and turn a fond eye on him whenever he mispronounced a word. _Why, silly, you’re talking like a Frenchman._

She made sure to drop the man off at the very station, afraid that he wouldn’t find the way on his own. Then, after taking their leave, they found themselves heading towards the riverwalk, Hungerford Bridge glowing white at their left, the path to Victoria Embankment pooled in dark shadows at their right. The walk along the river was cold, and the smile Lizzie had been wearing for the stranger soon died out. The man had chatted so much — something about a friend getting drunk on his birthday and star signs, and an Aries ascendant — that the quietness hanging over the darkened embankment now was all the more evident.

The Thames ran silently at their side, lamp posts weakly lit the way. There was something akin to peace in that wintry muteness when, just some streets away, life in the city blazed hotly and anew: pubs, traffic lights, nightclubs, red carpets, theatres, gallery exhibitions. Drunk wheezing, sirens, unabashed laughter. All mingled together in a deafening roar made of concrete and lightning. And out there, in the river path, her hand so weakly clutching his own. _Why so quiet? Why so quiet, love?_

He made them stop and sit on the parapet. Cold stone, cutting wind. Across the river, the light coming from the London Eye wheel cast a reddish glow over their faces. A haze, a special lighting chosen for a film production.  _Trois Couleurs: La Fraternité est Rouge._ Under that light, she could almost look like an icon, he could almost see the candle burning pleadingly at her feet. Red altar lamp. _Ave Maria, gratia plena._ Queen of Heaven.

A bong coming from Big Ben startled the air, as on cue with the dead leaves that swirled and clashed in the wind. Lizzie turned her head to listen, attentive, and Henry squeezed her hand as though she would simply disappear once the bell stopped chiming. Under that fairytale logic, he felt young and daft as a boy again. 

“Lizzie, will you tell me what’s wrong?”

His thumb stroke the back of her hand softly, leather against wool, and she offered him a weak smile in turn. “It’s nothing, really. It’s silly.”

“I doubt it. It made you upset.”

“It’s just—” She sighed, looking at the hand covering her own. “I’m just a terrible person.”

Henry choked down a laugh, trying to keep a straight face. “Says _who?_ ”

Lizzie was the kindest, tenderest, loveliest person he knew. Why, everyone loved her! She was beautiful, the type of beautiful that turned heads on the streets. But perhaps most important of all was that she had that charming, unaffected glow about her. A golden radiance, a gravitational pull of warmth that made people feel comfortable in her presence — comfortable enough to talk, and jest, and ask, ask, ask for a favour, or two. Or several. It made him wonder sometimes, nights when the shadow of worry visited his sleep to whisper in his ear: was he, him too, one of those desperate people taking up her time?

“I said something… awful to my mum today.”

Henry had seen to so many things that day, he forgot Lizzie was supposed to meet her mother. The thought of a confrontation made him slightly unease and he shifted a bit on his place, shoe touching his briefcase placed on the ground. “You did?”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t because of you. She knew it already.” She raised her gaze to him again, soft hazel eyes and a small smile. “Maybe we’re not so subtle as we think we are.”

He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Now that’s a relief, no?”

He tried to humour her with a chuckle, but she looked away again. A flitting bird he couldn’t quite catch no matter how much he tried.

“It’s just… I shouldn’t have said that to her.”

What _that_ was, it seemed she wouldn’t say.

“Well. She’s your mother, Lizzie. I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

She shook her head gravely. “You don’t understand. You’ve got a great relationship with your mother. It’s not like that to me.”

Henry couldn’t really deny her point. He lost two seconds in search of something else to say, anything. “... It’s going to be alright, you’ll see.”

Lizzie retrieved her hand. “But you don’t know that!”

“But it will—”

“Henry, don’t.” She leapt off the parapet. “Don’t… patronise me.” Looking down at her shoes, golden hair strands falling on her face. “Everyone treats me like a child.” Furtive, accusatory glance. “Even you sometimes.”

 _I certainly don’t_ , he was about to say, alluding to their morning together, but Lizzie pressed on, burying her hands inside the pockets of her coat and scraping a foot against the ground.

“It makes me feel… stupid.” She paused, frowning. “And... small. Hardly human.” She looked back at him again, eyes cutting him to the bone. “Have you ever felt that, Henry? Small?”

 _Small?_ “I… don’t think so, no.” Her shoulders fell at that, and such was her look of disappointment that he immediately regretted his words. “But if by small you mean insignificant, or… powerless… then, yes. Yes, absolutely.”

Henry couldn’t decide whether she looked more reassured by that, so he tried reaching out to fix the ends of her scarf, bringing her close to him again. “I think that feeling is... a more or less common human experience.”

“You’re right, of course.” She forced a smile, rubbing one eye. “How silly of me, innit.”

Henry found himself gaping up at her, starved child who didn’t know what to say. Deprived of words, deprived of sense, deprived of understanding. Not for the first time she left him searching for the name of things he couldn’t quite find. She just needed to be there, and suddenly he wouldn’t know how to translate himself into language anymore. English, Welsh, French. They were all useless to him.

In that jumble of imprecision, against his own lack of soothing words, the unmistakable forest green bag looped over her shoulder offered him a way out. He cleared his throat, trying to get her attention again.

“So you did go to Harrods after all?”

“Oh.” Lizzie touched the shop bag, its presence visibly forgotten to her up to that moment. “Well, you insisted, didn't you?” She placed it by his side on the parapet. “Do you want to see the dress I bought?”

Setting aside the wrapping paper, she unfolded a bundle of bright scarlet fabric. That dress was the colour of liquid garnets, a river of fresh blood rushing forth to meet him. Henry was too distracted for a moment to do more than just taking off a glove and touch the silk, feeling its cool smoothness run against his fingers.

“Do you like it?”

Her voice was tentative, breathless.

“It’s…” He searched for words in his daze. “... Red.”

“So you don’t?”

He looked up at her again. “No, no. It’s just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed he was always choosing the wrong word. “It’s just that I never see you wearing that colour. I was just surprised, I reckon.”

“Well, I thought you might like it… just this once.”

"I like it, I do!" He hooked a finger on the pocket of her coat to bring her closer still. “I'm sure you'll look splendid in it.”

Lizzie smiled down at him, shyly, and her smile felt genuine at last. It was as good a time as any for Henry to bring up the issue. “Although, speaking of which… I’ve been thinking of staying home for my birthday. My mother says she’ll be dropping by and cook some food. My uncle is also likely to show up.”

Her eyes went round. “But what about our reservation? I’ve never been to that restaurant, you know...”

“I know.” Hand rubbing the small of her back. “We can go there on your birthday, what do you say?” That earned him a small pout. “Look, you can still wear your dress. There’s this dinner party I’ve been invited to. Just some associates, future partners.” He chuckled, breezily. “Granted, we’ll probably talk business the whole time there, but it should be a fine occasion. Fancy, five-star hotel. Hmm, what do you think? Will you go with me?”

“But—” She hesitated, wringing her hands together. “I don’t know a thing about business. Why should I go with you?”

“You don’t need to.” He reached for her hands, pulling them apart and taking one in his own. Small, gloved hand with a little bow on top. “You just need to be your charming self.”

“You mean smile and look pretty?”

It did sound bad the way she put it. “That... shouldn’t be hard for you?”

She sighed and looked away. Somewhere along the river, towards Westminster Bridge, towards the Houses of Parliament. Her gaze was as far-reaching as the dark night sky, infinite like the gleaming stars concealed by fog, killed in their wake by pollution.

“I’ll do it. I’ll go with you.”

“Will you?” He kissed her knuckles. “Thank you.”

She had agreed to his plan, but still she stood there with her face turned from him.

“Lizzie...”

He shook her hand, but no reply or change in posture came.

“Darling…”

Motionless, as if she was made of stone.

“ _Sugar cane_.”

At that Lizzie let out a short snort, finally looking at him again. “I've told you that’s a terrible pet name!” _Almost scientific_ , she had once said.

“Come on, you _love_ it.”

“No, I don’t—” She stopped short of whatever sentence she was about to say, laughing. That sweet, mellifluous sound.

“What? What is it?”

“You’ve got that goofy smile on your face.”

It only made him grin wider. “Do I?” His hands travelled to her waist. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Lizzie ran a hand along the lapel of his overcoat, along the scarf hung around his neck. “I suppose I haven’t—” Another hand landed on his tie. “—greeted you properly today.”

Henry shook his head lamely from side to side. “You haven’t.”

“Suppose I make up for it?” Her arms encircled his shoulders, her nose hovered inches apart from his. “Suppose I kiss you now?”

Her hair fell over him like a shower of gold. “Suppose you do?”

“Shut up.”

She landed her soft lips on his. Gentle, ever so gentle. The sort of gentle that left him yearning for more. He jumped to his feet mid-kiss, flushing her body against his to deepen the contact. He felt her smiling against his lips, laugh bubbling up on the back of her throat. God, he never wanted that kiss to end! Her sweet lips, her warm body. Yet, when it did eventually, he lifted her up against him and spun her around in a circle. _Idiot_ , with the river just a few meters below. What if he tripped? Fell back? He couldn’t be trusted with one rational thought around her, it seemed.

But when she landed her feet back on the ground, she thanked him by burying her face against his shoulder. She sighed.

“It’s so cold tonight. Hold me close, love. Hold me tight.”

As if she really needed to ask him. His cheek was pressed against hers in a way he was sure the arm of his glasses would leave a mark on her skin. He ran a hand along her hair. “Do you want me to take you home?”

He felt her shaking her head. “No, let’s go to yours. I can text Maggie later.” She pulled back and kissed his cheek, smiling ever so sweetly. “I want to cuddle.”

“Ha!” He grinned. “Only if I get to be the little spoon.”

“Noooo!” She slapped his chest lightly. “I’m the one who’s upset! I want to be the little spoon!”

“Don’t we all?” Henry picked up his briefcase and started walking again, smirking, pulling her along. “Guess we’ll have to see.”

It started raining again, very lightly. Soon the river path would be filled with a thick, impenetrable fog, but Henry only felt elated, light-headed, stepping on clouds. He opened up his umbrella and Lizzie huddled up against him. Snuggly, warmth radiating off her. It could storm and rage for all he cared. What difference did the weather make to him, what harm could it cause, when his life was going just so fine?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 
> Hello there! Quick announcement: I'll be moving to a new flat shortly, and I'm also trying to submit a manuscript by February next year. So there are quite a few things that I need to focus at the moment, and I'm afraid this fic won't be a top priority. But I promise I'll still try to post another chapter next month.
> 
> Happy Holidays! See you sometime in January (hopefully)! x


	5. The Colour of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red was not her colour, Lizzie decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the long hiatus. The following chapter turned out to be too long, so I've split it in half. Part 2 will come out shortly, so stay tuned. 
> 
> Click on this [link](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0109/7052/products/S_SACHI_BORDEAUX_SATIN_600x.png?v=1547113287) if you want to have a rough idea of what Lizzie's dress looks like.
> 
>   

Red was not her colour, Lizzie decided, spying her reflection on the revolving doors of the hotel lobby. In those sketchy, poorly defined lines, her reflection looked back at her on a red hazy blur, a holy apparition captured on a stained glass window. She usually avoided the colour at all times; she always looked excessively pale against its vibrant sanguine hue. Add that to the red tones underlying her blonde hair, and it only made her look even more like an overripe tomato, a red pepper soup. That evening, Lizzie stepped into the _Mondrian London_ holding onto Henry’s hand and trying not fret about it all.

There was also another problem regarding that colour: she tended to get flustered far too easily. Henry didn’t seem to mind the matching redness on her cheeks, though. If anything, he must find it endearing. Especially as his hands roved over her skin before they dashed off to the party, lips marking a trail of hot kisses along her neck and fingers clutching her waist so tight Lizzie thought her dress would get creased. He certainly didn’t mind the way she blushed bright red as he whispered sweet words into her ear. They sent a thrill along her spine, but Lizzie had denied him her mouth most cruelly. She didn’t want to mess her carefully applied lipstick in a snog session that would probably leave them both disarranged. _Pas sur la bouche,_ she had quipped in French, just before turning her cheek away.

She could see he was nervous that night. He had that look on his face, hands flexing and unflexing, when she knew he was desperately craving anything that might serve as an exhaust valve for his nerves — an addiction: a cigarette, or _her._ Of course it was all too much trouble to risk the smoke lingering on his clothes and ruining the primness of his dinner jacket and black bowtie. His silver cufflinks were spotless, his patent leather shoes, Yves Saint Laurent. On top of everything else, he was wearing his contacts. That evening he was — as once he had put it himself, self-amused and wryly — his businesslike persona: _Henri Sans-Lunettes._

It was the smallest thing, of no consequence whatsoever, but Lizzie loved his glasses dearly. The round metallic frame gave him a slightly eccentric air. The large lenses framed his lively gaze in a way she could almost see his thoughts flitting from place to place. They brought a special clearness to his blue eyes — eyes that wanted to envelop the entirety of the world. Yet, funnily, she loved when he took them off too. The act felt exquisitely intimate and domestic: Henry hopping in the shower, Henry readying himself to sleep, Henry off to bed and taking her with him. A secret, other Henry, which only she was privy to.

Now at the _Mondrian,_ they walked along copper clad walls, long halls filled with mirrors. The hosts had booked the whole hotel’s rooftop bar for the party. Funnily enough, Lizzie didn’t even know what that party was about. She was only realising that now, when, at the coat check, she was fixing her earrings. She could have asked Henry, surely, but it seemed she had opted to fret about her appearance for a whole week instead. It made her feel stupidly vain, but her mother’s comments on her weight gain had lead to a state of half-starvation for the past week. She had cut down on carbs and salt, if only to prevent bloating.

 _Are you really just going to have a salad?_ Henry had asked her just the previous day, an inquisitive eyebrow arched just slightly.

 _It’s just a queasy stomach,_  she had replied with a tight-lipped smile, though it looked like her answer hadn’t been anywhere near satisfying.

Lizzie pressed her hands to her stomach, smoothing down the silky fabric of her slip dress. She fixed the thin straps on her shoulders and the loose hair strands framing her face and turned to Henry, swallowing down her nerves.

“How do I look?”

A lazy smile crossed his features, his eyes half-clouded and hooded, before he bent down to press a kiss to her cheek. Hand placed on the small of her back, his breath fanned the baby hairs at her temple.

“ _Ravishing_.”

She gazed back at him so fondly, oh so fondly, she could throw her arms around his shoulders and pull him into a kiss. Her lipstick be damned, she decided at once. She wanted him to kiss her there and then, to kiss her deep, to kiss her silly, but Henry had already stepped back and, running a hand through his meticulously combed hair and fixing his tie, he went very still for a second. Then, sighing, a congenial smile came to his lips — a smile to no one in particular, businesslike in its nature. He tugged on her hand again.

“Let’s go.”

They stepped into the hotel bar— ample, modern, but also oddly retro in its style. The old building in which it now stood was called _The Sea Containers_ , and Lizzie couldn’t help but thinking of it as a cruise ship about to be launched on the banks of the River Thames. Though everyone seemed to be standing, there were large plush sofas around the room, light fittings that looked like fireworks, and back there, just behind the glass doors leading to a balcony, a view speckled with white, blue and red: St Paul’s Cathedral glowing white into the night, surrounded by the buildings of the City like an evening star in its orbit. There was someone playing at the piano, busy servers came and went with trays full with flutes of champagne.

“Mr Henry Tudor!” Someone exclaimed, something like ‘ _what a pleasure to see you, how nice you were able to join us’_ following right after. Handshakes and smiles and nods coming out on cue. _And the lady?_

The hand on the small of her back pushed her forward, ever so slightly. “Miss Elizabeth York.”

“Elizabeth York?” A white head among the strangers cried out. “Do you mean little Lizzie, Edward’s little girl?”

She was so surprised to hear her father’s name, her brain took a moment to process it. Blinking, undecided between a frown and a smile, she babbled. “You knew my father?”

“Oh if I didn’t!” The man laughed, clasping his hands together, eyes full of joy. “Alice! Come here, come see York’s daughter! Look how she’s grown!”

His white head disappeared briefly inside the crowd, just for a second, before returning with three elderly women. Lizzie was relieved to find other women around — all those strange men eyeing her as though she was some exotic piece at the marketplace was certainly not a pleasant sensation — but more curious, smiling faces heading her way was not a relieving prospect either. She wrung her hands together, took a deep intake of air, and Henry leaned closer to squeeze her arm just above the elbow.

“Smile.”

It instantly prompted her to force out a grin. _It was easy_ , she tried to convince herself as she received the strangers, _she could do this_. Just a few hours of playing the idle socialite. Hadn’t she watched her mother doing that countless times before? Hadn’t she been  pratically raised to do the same?

“Look here, Alice!” The old man said, and Lizzie would soon find out he was none other than John Fogge, one of her father’s longtime associates. “York’s little girl! Look, look how pretty she’s grown!”

“She’s always been pretty, John.” The woman gave her an affable smile and a little pat on her wrist, bracelets clinking together. Her elegant silver hair contrasted markedly with her golden jewellery. “Don’t mind him, dear. He was just too fond of your father, you see.”

It stung her heart to hear someone talking so warmly of him. “He was?”

“Why, don’t you remember us, girl?”

“Don’t you remember my son William’s wedding?” Mr Fogge cut in. “You were at the party, I remember. He was the tallest lad in the room— put into his head to be wed in a turquoise suit! Ha, the madman!”

Lizzie smiled nervously, something like a recollection coming to mind. “Oh, yes… I think I do remember the ceremony... Kentish Town, wasn't it?”

Their faces seemed to perk up at the faint notion of her remembering them. It was a common thing among elderly people to be so delighted at someone taking interest in their lives and memories. It was nothing short of a kindness, and an easy one to do too. Lizzie tried to search her mind for anything that might aid her attempt at conversation.

“How are… ” She searched for names, in vain. “... the children?”

 _Oh, William, Thomas and Anne were doing splendidly,_ the Fogges were only too glad to reply. Their tongues soon unravelled the long tales of the current lives of their children, and obviously, their grandchildren also. The whole time Henry kept smiling, affably nodding. He was half-turned, talking to some gentleman by his side, when Mr Fogge nudged him with his elbow.

“You lucky lad! I didn’t know you had snatched York’s little girl! Look at her, she’s a beauty now! Loveliest woman in the room!”

“He didn’t snatch her, dear.” Mrs Fogge ran an appeasing hand along her husband’s sleeve, shooting him a disapproving look before turning to Henry again. “John only means we’re glad to see you together. What a beautiful couple you make.”

Lacing an arm around her waist, Henry brought Lizzie closer to his side. “We’re also so very glad.” He smiled, looking into her eyes, but that smile he was wearing wasn’t anywhere near the genuine ones he gave her in private. It was again his easy, commercial smile. “Aren’t we, Lizzie?”

_Aren’t we, Lizzie? Isn’t it, Lizzie? Isn’t that right, my darling?_

Those were common questions Henry would ask her again and again during the course of the evening as he seemed to parade her about the room. Lizzie had thought it was a dinner party, but it was actually a _cocktail_ party, which meant there was no moment to sit down, only endless hours standing on the balls of her feet, her heels getting more uncomfortable by the minute. His questions were always followed by an affectionate little squeeze, and she would hear people gushing up in response as though they were a pair of lovable puppies. Why, Henry never engaged in PDA when they were in front of acquaintances!

Lizzie would reply back with a pageant-beauty smile: a slow drawing of her lips followed by a bat of her eyelashes and a dreamy look about the room. A state of contentment too overwhelming not to be shared with all, a dutiful happy bride.  _Yes, of course._

One by one she learned the names of each guest. Lizzie started to remember some of them back from her father’s days — John Guildford, she recalled, whose son Richard had tried to chat her up when she was only fourteen. Old funny William Collyngbourne, with his bushy eyebrows and his snarky political remarks. John Cheyne and his brother Robert, the tallest heads in the room, their heights only more evidenced now because her father wasn’t there. Giles Daubeney, of course, who she didn’t recall but who apparently knew who she was. And right beside Daubeney, Mr Bray in his long beaked face: Mrs Beaufort’s solicitor whom Lizzie had already met with several times before.

Lizzie felt a hand touching her arm. Mrs Fogge was back in her green taffeta dress and clinking bracelets.

“Mr Tudor, would you mind me stealing Elizabeth for a moment? There’s some people over there I’d like her to meet.”

Indeed, there was an eager group hovering near the piano, all expectant smiles and waving at them.

“Stealing?” Henry cocked up an eyebrow. “Why, ma’am. I’d like to keep her, you see.”

The elderly lady issued a high-pitched laugh. “No, of course, I just want to borrow her for a second. I’m bringing her back. May I?”

Flute of champagne in hand, Henry’s whole expression was magnanimous. “Only if you promise to give her back in one piece. Can I trust that you will?”

“Pooh! Of course!” Her withered fingers touched Lizzie’s cheek. “This jewel here, imagine!” And lowering her voice to her, affectionate and warm, Mrs Fogge added. “This dress fits you beautifully, my dear. Aren’t you a sight?”

The woman pulled her by the wrist whilst Henry winked and tilted his chin forwards, nudging her to go. He tapped a finger to his cheek, reminding her to smile again.

Oh, the whole ordeal felt so much easier when she was younger! Lizzie was no stranger to navigating those types of social events, but then, a painful reminder came to her mind: she had never been alone, there had always been her _father_ — that bright, larger-than-life presence. It only sufficed he opened his mouth to laugh and people were throwing themselves at his feet. She reckoned back in the days no one had really been paying attention to her, it was all just her father. _It had always been just her father_. Now she had to carry on with the show by herself.

Yet she wasn’t alone, was she? Not really. Henry was also there. Lingering languidly by the piano, completely detached from whatever conversation was going on around her, she observed him from across the room. He looked so elegant that evening in his dinner jacket. Even those satin lapels she had so complained about before seemed to fit his whole look now. Lizzie was amazed at how splendidly he was carrying himself. Back in his old days at uni no one would have thought that sullen-faced Henry Tudor could become such a charming guest. Her heart fluttered a bit in her chest, as if her ribcage had suddenly turned too small, too tight, and she couldn’t turn her eyes from his way.

The pianist started a slow [ song](https://youtu.be/EZghXlrop5k), one that she knew well. She didn’t hear the lyrics, but they came to her mind all the same. Smooth twinkling keys cascaded down her memory.

 _Someday he'll come along_ _  
_ _The man I love_

As if sensing her eyes on him, Henry turned and stopped for a moment, mid-step, mid-conversation. His face dissolved completely, as if letting down a mask, and the corners of his lips turned upwards in a thin smile — that smile she had been so eagerly awaiting the whole party. All truly his, all truly _hers_. She felt her own cheeks parting, breath hitching, and she thought her heart had grown so much in size it would burst.

But then someone was touching his shoulder and he turned, broke away all too quickly from her gaze. He was all easy smiles again, graciously accepted what looked like a Cuban cigar and left with the group for the fresh air of the balcony overlooking the Thames. _Men_ , Lizzie thought bitterly, fighting the urge to roll her eyes — only to realise the group she was supposed to be having a conversation with had moved elsewhere and she had been left behind, alone by the piano. Well, if the men could have a moment for themselves so could she, right? Lizzie broke one of the first rules of party etiquette and retrieved her mobile from her clutch bag.

Phone in hand, she went over to one of the glass windows off to the side of the bar and took a picture of St Paul’s: splendid, dome lit up in all its might, complete with a view to Blackfriars and Waterloo bridge. She sent the photo to her sister, the one person she knew who would reply almost immediately.   

> **Lizzie**
> 
> Guess where I am!

A string of heart eyes emojis followed her text, a sprinkle of hearts too. True to what she had expected, Lizzie didn’t have to wait too long before the three little dots appeared on the screen.

> **Cece**
> 
> Omg! The viewwww  
>  Where is it? The OXO Tower?

_Guess it again_ , Lizzie was typing, genuinely amused for the first time, when she heard footsteps approaching. She quickly looked up from her phone, startled that someone would catch her committing such a social gaffe. A dark-haired man, some five (four?) years older than herself, smiled down at her.

“Taking a break?”

Lizzie instantly sped her eyes around the room, finding Henry still smoking on the balcony. His group was engaged in a rather lively conversation from what she could tell. There had always been some weird mystical sort of camaraderie between men that struck unbelievably fast. Whether that was a true lasting sentiment was a completely different thing. 

The man stepped to the side, blocking her view of Henry. “Don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere.” Lopsided smile, dark eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

His voice chilled her, fell over her like a blanket of snow. For a moment she could only look at him warily from under her lashes, but he stepped closer. His bow tie wasn’t black like Henry’s, but white — starch white.

“Lizzie, isn’t it?”

She hesitated. “Elizabeth.”

“Lizzie,” He pressed on, “I’m John de la Pole.” He extended a hand and she couldn’t think of an excuse to deny him taking one of her own. “Nice to meet you.”

She retrieved her hand before his lips touched her skin. She squeezed her phone in her hand, restless, feeling like a cornered rabbit. Involuntarily, her eyes tried to search for Henry again, in vain. The man noticed her failed attempt.

“Tudor finally let you breathe, did he?” He chuckled, shaking the ice cubes inside his drink. “Quite the eventful night for you. You must be tired.”

“It’s been a pleasure to be here.”

The simplest of statements, yet she put just the slightest emphasis on the word _pleasure._

The way his eyes flashed, though, he must have found her reply exceedingly amusing. He turned to face the window, eyeing her from the corner of his eyes. “How did the two of you meet?”

Lizzie was unsure about disclosing such personal information, but perhaps if she answered his question he would go away and leave her alone. “At uni…” She trailed off, deciding that was a sufficient enough answer for him.

“Now that’s a bit convenient, isn’t it?”

She tucked a hair strand behind her ear. “I’m— I’m sorry?”

“Well, you see, no one likes to admit they’re together thanks to a dating app, do they? They always say _oh I met him at my local_ , _we_ _ran into each other at the library, we went to the same gym._ No one likes to admit it all started on a plain boring Tinder date.”

Lizzie squinted her eyes at him. “It didn't.”

He waved a hand. “Oh, I’m not saying that, sweetheart. God knows you don’t need an OkCupid profile for that, do you?” He let out a barbed short laugh, the pointy end of a steel knife. “Though you must admit you do make an odd couple, as convenient as it might be for you both.”

Why was that man repeating the word _convenient_ so much?

“Well… I disagree.”

She fell silent at that, and she was only too glad de la Pole seemed to be distracted gazing out the window. Lizzie was about to excuse herself and say she needed to talk to someone else — Mrs Fogge, perhaps, would be a good excuse — when he turned to her again.

“And when are the good news?”

“The news?” She parroted back, confused.

“Well,” He shrugged with deliberate nonchalance, looking down at his glass again. “I don’t see a ring...”

Lizzie squeezed her mobile again, frowning. That man had some nerve to ask her that question. He, a perfect stranger!

“I’m afraid that’s private information.”

“Is it? Then let's just be honest here. This thing you two have going on... is it like a escort-client thing?” He half smiled, eyes flashing once more. “Or just regular arm candy thing… With some fooling around, some fun times in the backseat, perhaps?”

Her mouth fell agape with horror. Was de la Pole calling her... was he calling her…

She blinked for long seconds, fighting off incoming tears. “I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

He huffed aside, talking to his own glass. “Pretty pillock.”

Taking a draw, his eyes scanned her face, shamelessly travelled down her bosom to her draped neckline. “We could have fun, you and I. What do you think?” His sleazy smile flashed again. “Why don’t you hand me over that phone so I can type you my number?”

Dumbstruck, utterly devoid of speech, Lizzie stepped back, only for her back to meet the cold surface of the glass window. She had to bite her lip to keep from yelping, had to restrain herself so as to not jump forward. There was no room left for her to move. There was no room left for her to move and she folded her phone into her chest, clutched at it, tight.

“Lizzie!” Henry’s clear voice rang in the air. “Darling, we’re going.”

 _Henry   Henry   Henry_ _Henry_

De la Pole turned around and Lizzie all but shoved past his shoulders to get to Henry’s side. It was almost pathetic how quickly she flew to his arm, how practically she hid her face into his shoulder. Most pathetic of all, perhaps, was how desperately she wanted to do those two things, how she just wanted to rest her head on his shoulder cap and disappear.

Wrapping an arm around her side, Henry acknowledged the other man’s presence with a nod.

“De la Pole.”

A curt nod back.

“Tudor.”

Henry shoved a hand inside his pocket, casting him a curious glance mixed with a wry smile. “Admiring the view?”

Lizzie felt her cheeks colouring. Dropping her eyes to the ground, she heard de la Pole’s swift reply.

“It really is lovely from up here, isn't it?”

She looked up to see Henry’s smile fading out, but she pressed a hand to his chest before he could reply with the comeback she knew must be on the tip of his tongue. “Darling, before we go, I need to go to the loo.”

He looked back at her, nodding.

She forced a smile up to him and he cupped her cheek, knuckles brushing her skin — tenderly, briefly — before letting her go. Her steps were quick and short, heels clicking on the floor in her haste to get away. That view of St Paul’s Cathedral had quickly turned too hateful.

Standing in front of the basin now, she faced her reflection with a tissue dabbed to the corner of one eye. She couldn’t believe how stupid she must have come across to make people think she was some sort of high class escort. _Was everyone there thinking the same?_ She couldn't help wondering, couldn't help thinking of it.  _Stupid, silly blonde_ , an evil voice whispered. _Pretty pillock,_ walking stereotype.

Fixing her hair, red silk shining brightly in the mirror, Lizzie pressed her hands to the side of her ribs and took a deep breath to compose herself. Henry would be waiting outside; they had yet to say their goodbyes before they could go home. And so she knew, recalling her mother’s life lessons: the art of the performer was a never-ending act.

She was not going to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I treasure each and every comment.  
> Part 2 will be dropping soon, so don't be shy.
> 
>  
> 
> ___________________________________________
> 
> Follow the [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/lfeuillesmortes/a-song-of-roses/)!


	6. The Colour of Love, continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry knew he should not have mixed love and professional life together and yet… the opportunity was too tempting not to take it. A floating apple on the highest branch of the highest tree, ready to be picked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before proceeding, friendly reminder that this fic is rated M. This chapter contains nsfw content.

_We did it!_

All those long dragging months, and Henry had never felt so sure of it before. They had barely stepped inside his flat and he was seizing her in his arms, spinning her around, laughing, pushing her up against the door. A wave of energy washed over him and he was hungrily kissing her mouth, pushing her coat out of the way to get to the curve of her neck, to the hollow of her collarbone. A gasp, her hands gripping his shoulders tight, and he was back kissing her lips, molding her body into his, no empty spaces between the two—

His phone started ringing. Henry pulled back with a groan and reached into his pocket to check the caller ID: none other than his uncle Jasper. He remembered he was supposed to report back.

“Sorry, I have to answer this.”

She nodded — breathless, cheeks blushing a pretty shade of pink — before she bent down to collect her coat, dropped to the floor on the spur of the moment. Henry pressed his phone to his ear and went over to the window, sliding the panel up to see whether a cold blast of air could cool him down. It was his uncle on the end of the line and he needed to _focus_ , he needed to _think_. He started talking — _Fogge is definitely in, Daubeney all but said yes_ — but his eye kept wandering to whatever Lizzie was doing. Taking off her shoes, walking over to the fridge, hips swaying, curves enhanced by the cut of her dress.

He felt that uncomfortable sensation again, one he felt as soon as he caught sight of her that very evening: feeling as mindless as a bull, blood singing, eye drawn to red flash of her dress. The first time he had seen that piece of fabric he had not thought it would have that… effect on him. _No_ , Henry thought, almost angry with himself. He definitely had to cool down. What was he, a schoolboy? Hearing his uncle’s long reply, he took off his jacket, untied his bow tie, rolled up his sleeves. He watched a car’s rear lights leave a crimson trail into the night.

On the phone, Jasper was obviously very pleased with the news.

“Yes. I think they have all come around, yes.”

Brexit might yet prove to be a gigantic catastrophe for the country, but for him, Henry Tudor, so far it had been anything but. In the ensuing chaos that had risen, investors taking their business back to the Continent, companies closing their quarters in Britain, Henry and his uncle had found a way to earn the confidence of the few British investors still hoping to thrive in the country’s politically unstable scenario.

It was easy stroking their ego; for every rich man there was a personal, self-aggrandizing flaw. This one was a Brexiteer? Why, Henry couldn’t wait for the time when Britain would finally be able to fund the NHS at its full capacity. That other one looked like a Remainer? Sure, the EU was the future, a supranational institution safeguarding against the rising authoritarian populism in Europe. Self-proclaimed art connoisseur? Splendid, had he ever been to the new Turner galleries at the Tate Britain? Bon-vivant with a taste for travelling? Henry had plenty of secret destinations to recommend in France.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Lizzie pulled a wine bottle from the cabinet and was now struggling to open it, eyebrows drawn together in effort. She turned the corkscrew this and that way, to no avail. Henry tried to keep focused, tried to keep talking, yet soon found himself dismissing his uncle over the phone — _That’s basically it_. _Yes, we’ll talk later. Tomorrow._ — then, pressing the red button and dropping his phone aside, he languorously made his way to the kitchen.

“Do you need a hand?”

Lizzie whirled around as if surprised, blowing a hair strand out of her face. “I can do it.”

"I know." He nodded, yet extended his hand all the same. “I want to do it for you, though. May I?”

She hesitated for a second, but perhaps seeing his earnest expression — eyebrows raised, the thin trace of a smile curling upwards — she acquiesced, placed the corkscrew in his hand. He made quick work of it as she settled on one of the stools, naked feet dangling freely in the air like a child. She got hold of two wine glasses and placed them neatly on the kitchen island. Twirling, twirling one of the steams as she spoke.

“I’m sorry, I only brought wine. Are you hungry?”

 _Hungry for you only_ , _perhaps._

“No.” Then, offering a smile. “As it is, I think I’ve had enough of those quiches Lorraine at the party.”

“Oh, the little square ones?" She half-smiled herself, wistfully. "I didn't get to try those."

Henry wasn’t particularly surprised. God knows why she had barely eaten that week. Looking over her shoulder, he saw she had taken down his red wine glasses — round, wide bowls ideal for fast oxidation — yet, holding the wine bottle in hand and finally paying attention to it, Henry realised it was not at all a red.

“Chardonnayagain, love?” He exclaimed, chuckling. “Do you know what they say about white wine? It’s _wine for people who don’t like wine_.”

He laughed, but her smile instantly died out.

“It was... my father’s favourite.”

 _Oh... shite_.

Edward York, Edward York! Recently in his life it seemed everything came down to what Edward York did, what Edward York thought, what Edward York wanted. How could a dead man wield such influence over his life? What type of mind-grating absent presence was that? Henry knew he should not have mixed love and professional life together and yet… the opportunity was too tempting not to take it. A floating apple on the highest branch of the highest tree, ready to be picked.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to…” Lizzie had her eyes down, fingers gliding over the flat surface. “I know you've got some other stuff here.”

“No, no. You spent money on this, we’re drinking it.” He said perhaps too quickly, to her surprise — but then, feeling something akin to embarrassment, amazed at this own inaptitude, he scratched the back of his neck and mumbled. “I mean... it was a joke. I like white wine, you know I do.”

“It’s... okay." She gave him a small, appeasing smile. "Really.”

The gibbering, blundering fool that he was! Henry knew all too well that it wasn't, in fact, okay. He poured them both some of the pale liquid and watched as she took a sip slowly, looking rather gloomy and uninterested.

“Darling, are you tired?” He leaned closer over her shoulder, tucked a hair strand behind the shell of her ear.

“Well, a little bit, yes. My feet hurt.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He smoothed a hand along her hair, stopped to pick at the hairpins, letting her locks run free. He scooped it and swept it all to one side of her neck. Her shoulders were covered in freckles, as was the bridge of her nose whenever she spent too much time under the sun. His fingers were so used to the feel of her hair, they ran through her strands by instinct.

“But I’m proud to say our mission was a success. All thanks to you."

She turned her face to him, looking utterly perplexed. " _Me?_ ”

“Yes, _you_.” He booped her nose. “Who else could that be? You charmed them all!”

By God, Lizzie was a natural! She had that inborn talent of making people feel important, make people feel heard, make them feel... _understood_. She paid attention to those little details that no one else did, little bits of information that would only ever matter to those who voiced them. She shined a quiet, enduring brilliance. _Loveliest woman in the room_ indeed, wherever she went.

Lizzie blinked. “But I thought… I had thought...” She shook her head, as if dispersing whatever she was going to say aloud, then shot a glance his way from under her lashes — golden like the sun rays, now darkened with mascara.

“Why didn’t you tell me my father’s friends would be at the party?”

“I didn’t know you knew them.”

 _Though it wouldn’t hurt if you did_. Actually, there was the best case scenario Henry had been hoping for. 

“I could have… prepared myself. I could’ve thought of possible subjects for conversation.”

“Well, think of it this way,” He shifted his stance, chugging some of the rich, buttery wine down. “Next time you’ll be more than just prepared.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled, but she frowned in response. “There will be a next time?”

“Why,  _plusieurs encore, ma mie!_ ” Gingerly pushing aside one of her straps, he placed a kiss on a freckled shoulder. “We’re a team. You said that yourself long ago, didn’t you?”

Her look of betrayal seemed to be mollified, somewhat. Her eyes on him were soft again. “Teammates with benefits, is it?”

“Yes, I must say the benefits are _especially_ important.”

She chuckled, lowering her eyelids. “Alright, just...” Fingertip running along the rim of her glass. “Next time... don’t leave me alone again, okay?”

“You think I left you alone?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. Lizzie had been surrounded by people the whole time, as requested as a queen bee. Yes, there had been that moment de la Pole loomed over her like a right vulture, but Henry had shooed him away in time, hadn’t he? He had thought as much. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the faint sound of alarm bells started ringing.

“Well…” She gave him a dismal one-shoulder shrug. “Maybe just a bit.”

“I’m sorry.” He searched her eyes, trying to show her how much he meant it. “I'm sorry, I promise you it won’t happen again.”

She nodded, looking down again. She ran both hands along her thighs, smoothing down the silk of her dress, feet dangling.

“Lizzie, look at me.” He cupped her cheek. “Look at me, love.”

Slowly, she raised her gaze to him. Her eyes were the colour of the warmest honey, of liquid amber. Rounded with green, speckled with gold. He was about to say something ( _what was that again?),_ yet found himself irrevocably dazed. He smiled, and the corners of her mouth followed his soon after. Her fingers reached for his dress shirt, travelled to the loose strip of his tie, pulling it and bringing him down closer to her. Then, heavenly, sublimely, her soft lips pressed a kiss to his neck, right between his windpipe and the corner of his jaw. Henry almost let out a sigh; he could want nothing more from her.

Actually, that was a lie he told himself often. He wanted much more from her. Much, much more. He wanted her _whole_. For a start, he wanted her mouth, that mouth she had denied him the entire night. One of his hands found the nape of her neck and, cradling her head, he brought her closer, pressed his lips to hers in one swift motion. Their tongues met, brushed, danced. She tasted like the white wine she was drinking: sweet, golden, perfect.

One minute he was bringing her down her stool, drawing her flush against him, and the next he was placing her on the island, hiking up her dress, hand travelling along the length of her thigh. She gasped as he hooked one leg around him. The few hair strands caught across her face flew as she exhaled into his mouth, hovering so close over hers. Her breath like air to his very lungs, scraps and bits of pleasure for the addicted, for the famished.

“Henry—”

But then he was taking her mouth again, fingers weaved through the hair at her nape, pressing her tight against him, already growing painfully hard for her. Surrounded by the scarlet sea of her thighs, feeling himself melt. Feverish, helpless, always the same question circling his mind, round and round like a caged animal. The question of want, the question of lack: _Do you long for me, ache for me, hunger for me the way I hunger for you?_

He dipped his head to kiss the column of her neck. He wished he could cover that precious expanse of skin with rubies, diamonds, gold — but for the meantime, a love bite would do. It was winter, she could wear a scarf or a polo neck to hide it. He pressed his lips to the spot where neck met collarbone and sucked on it eagerly, her hands on his shoulder blades, rumpling his shirt. He heard her breath hitch, felt her pulse running.

“Henry—”

He pulled back, feeling as unhinged as a teenager. It was oddly entrancing to watch his mark bloom, to watch the faint red begin to grow on her skin. Entrancing, yes, but he wanted more. He dipped his head again to kiss a path along her breastbone, down her chest. He kissed the top of her breasts, hand sliding up on the silk to cup the side of one boob. Soon he was pushing down her straps, Lizzie drawing her arms up to let him pull her dress down to her waist and—

God, she had the most gorgeous tits! Full and smooth, a wonder to behold. He had to restrain himself so as to not leave several other love bites on her chest. _Beauty-struck_ , he recalled the earlier sensation, nagging at his brain. _Beauty-struck_ , whenever he looked at her. Her grace so touching it could kill his own black heart. _Whoever said the bull in his chase hated the red_ , the thought gripped him forcefully, suddenly. _It was only ever a love dance to death_. What a heavenly way to die.

“Henry—” She had her arms around his neck, back arching. “Henry, the windows!”

Parting his lips from her skin, head clouded, he looked at her for two seconds before he was able to register what she had just said. _The bedroom_ , her lips were mouthing, and her suggestion was hastily accepted as he lifted her up, pulled her off to his room. Lizzie was right, as she often was about many things. His bed was spacious, so large it could almost be considered king-size, his very own stately paradise. For that, as for all other purposes, it would serve just as splendidly.

No sooner they had reached his room and he was sliding down her dress — carefully, excitedly, the overeagerness of a boy unwrapping a Christmas present — Red silk hit the floor, pooled around her feet in ripples of scarlet. Lizzie had never quite enjoyed being the only one undressed, though: she clung to him, deft fingers unbuttoning his dress shirt, hands working with surprising dexterity till one of his buttons flew off. 

“I’ll sew it back later.” She vowed fervently with a quick kiss. “I promise.”

Always so considerate, his angel.

He wanted to draw her closer to him, itched to press their bodies together into a single flatline — tighter, harder against him — but she was still undressing him, still taking off his shirt one arm at a time. He started to help: unfastened his belt, kicked off his shoes ( _the socks too!_ she reminded him) and he still wasn’t as quite undressed as her, but he was walking her backwards to the bed, walking till her calves bumped the mattress and they were nothing but a mess of limbs tumbling down on the sheets.

Zebra-like shadows, room pooled in half-darkness. A filtered light came from the street and through the vertical blinds, oscillating, flickering. And she was leaning back, leaning further back, sank flat into the sheets. The swell of his desire stirred inside him, it ebbed and flowed like a tide, it made his skin so hot it could burst. Yet there was something he wanted to do first. He pulled her hips to edge of the mattress and dropped his knees to the floor between her feet — the kneeling position of the worshipper, the praying motion of the devotee — tugged on her knickers with his teeth, hands holding her in place, to plant a kiss to one hip, to slide the thin underwear down and unto the floor.

He draped her legs over his shoulders and he knew she was blushing, blushing, blushing. He never tired to make her writhe under his touch, face half-covered with a bashful hand as he took her up like holy communion, as he swallowed her whole. All night he had thought of her and he would give her this, this one gift of pleasure. Her hips bucked up against him, and her whimpers turned muffled as she covered her face with a pillow.

That wouldn’t do. He wanted to watch her face as she came undone, wanted to hear her cry of ecstasy, of pure bliss. He reached up to uncover her face, so beautiful in its pained state, and then he was back again at his labouring, drawing her into an edge, closer and closer until he felt her unwind herself completely like a coiled cord, flat against his tongue. Her heels dragged into his back, her fingers tugged on his hair. She gasped, searching for air, and he rested his cheek on her thigh, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as — finally, lastly — he himself needed to catch his breath.

He felt her hand touching his head gingerly, and he looked up at her again.

“Henry—” She breathed, propped on one elbow. “Henry, let’s keep going.” Her hands reached for his shoulders until she could pull him up and atop the mattress again. “Let’s keep going.”

“Why so rushed, love?” He teased, smiling down at her, at her chest that heaved. “We have all night.”

And the next morning, and the next, and the next, and all the days yet to come.

“Quick, now.” She pleaded, voice choppy with urgency. “Hurry up.”

“Then put your arms around me.”

She did. Not only did she envelop him inside the circle of her arms, but she lifted her head and kissed him, brushed her lips slowly against his, her tongue lazy, salty and sweet at the same time. He could sigh against her mouth, he could hum, he could sing. Yes, he had turned a fool for her — she could ask him to jump in front of a car and he would gladly go outside and lay down his life on the road.

And so he frenzied, stripped himself from whichever last layer of clothing he had on to join her at last. Burning together: slowly at first, than at a steady rhythm. Head nested on the crook of her neck, feeling as if drowning. It was all too easy to get lost inside the shake of her thighs, to get lost inside the sound of her sighs, her ribcage expanding under his weight to draw out each word:

_Henry   Henry   Henry_

He raised his head when he realised it wasn’t just a moan, it was a question. Her golden hair splayed around her face like fiery points, it cascaded across his pillow like the tail of a comet.

“Mhmm?”

“Henry—” She placed her hands on either side of his face, eyes large and almost black in the dark. “Do you love me?”

“What?” He stopped, freezing in place. 

Still large and engulfing, her eyes were insistent. “Me, as a person?”

_A... person?_

“As opposed to?”

“You know.” She lowered her eyelids and raised them again. “Do you?”

She was embarrassed to ask and he was embarrassed to answer.

“Of—of course.”

Of all times she could ask him that question, it had to be at such a... critical moment! There was a question of his own circling his mind: _How could she not see it? How could she not see it? How could she not… ?_

Slowly, she let her head fall back on the pillow and closed her eyes again.

“Lizzie, are you... alright?”

She nodded. “I’m fine.” Her arms wrapped around him once more. “Please, go on.”

He started moving again, feeling rather unsatisfied with himself. She had been so close before, just so close. And now she was just lying there, almost limp, all fire gone. Lizzie! She, who loved to be on top, she who pushed him over the edge every time, drove him wild, mad with lust, desperate with need.

He stopped and flipped her, making her gasp. Henry had never failed to make her come before and he was not going to let that happen that time. He threaded his fingers through her hair, lowered his lips to her ear and he was confessing, confessing. Laying himself bare, naked beyond clothes.

“Lizzie, I am so in love with you! Can’t you see how—” His own breath was coming laboured, heavy. “—how utterly besotted I am?”

He loved the feel of her, loved her voice, loved the way she said his name. No one else had ever made him feel so good, so full of life. God, just thinking of her at that moment, right there inside her warmth, he felt going absolutely insane, crawling up the walls. He needed to make her come, he just needed to. He sneaked a hand down her waist, slid under along her skin to touch her where they joined. He felt her whole body tense, felt it arch. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

He almost didn’t want to ask her.

“No, don’t!” One of her hands was clutching the sheets, but she reached back, laced the other one around his neck. “Don’t stop.”

Movements that were up, down, circular. Chests that expanded, contracted, bent. Voices that cracked. His lips on her neck, next to the mark of his love bite. Bodies that rocked together, alight with infinite longing, filling to the brim till there was just too much that skin could hold.

Surrender.

He kissed her shoulder before rolling onto his back. Seconds of pure bliss stretched between them, ascended into the ceiling into clouds of contentment. He reached out, brushed her hair away from her face, flushed pink with exertion. 

“Lizzie, are you—”

“I’ll be right back.”

She got on her hands and elbows before she pushed herself up, swung her legs off the bed to make her way to the en-suite bathroom. She spent a long time there — or at least it felt so to Henry, whose fingers were still itching to hold her close. There was something about her that night. Something…

He sighed, folding an arm under his head and closing his eyes. He tried to distract his mind from a last craving, an after sex cigarette: nicotine rush, the meet of endorphins. He felt the whole course of the night weighting on him, tempting him with sleep, wearying him down.

She almost caught him by surprise when she emerged from the bathroom: dressed in her baby pink nightdress, face scrubbed clean, the light setting on her head like a golden halo. There wouldn't be a round two that night, it seemed. They stared at each other for long stretching seconds — a heavy pregnant pause, the pull and the push of the waves — till he patted the spot beside him on the sheets.

“Come here, sugar cane.”

That earned him a reluctant smile and a huff ( _Don't be so cheesy!_ ) _,_ but she did go to him, did slip inside the covers and curled into his side. He stroked her hair and she cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheek lightly. It was so soothing, so soothing. He felt drunk with her affection, nourished by her warmth, head heavy with sleep. His eyelids were dropping of their own accord, closing and closing until he saw her smile fading and he stopped, frowning.

_Tell me, love. Tell me._

As if reading his mind completely, she smiled again and shook her head. _It’s nothing_ , her motion seemed to say. _Nothing_. She pressed a peck to his lips to seal her point.

Sleep found him with his arms wrapped around her middle.

 _Sugar cane,_ his heart sang. Over and over like a lullaby.  _Sugar cane._


	7. A Matter of Trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should have sent for Henry. Instead, he had come to Henry’s office and that would be his biggest mistake that day. His room, his rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I apologise for the length of this chapter. Let me know if you get to the very end!
> 
> Some information:
> 
> IPO: The Intellectual Propriety Office, the official UK government body responsible for intellectual property.
> 
> Sushisamba (bar/restaurant): [[x](https://www.instagram.com/sushisamba/)]  
> 

“Who—please pardon my language now— _the fuck_ is Lambert Simnel?”

A teeth-chattering chill came from the glass windows in the office room. London had woken up that morning to a sunless sky. A snowfall was rumoured to happen at any time now, and so people waited, frettingly looking out the windows, poised on the edge of their seats, throbbing, humming, pulsating with anticipation like a car engine — waiting, rounding around the corner, paused to let a passenger in, eyes raised to the dreary grey skies.

It was nothing akin to romantic, that fluffy descent of white. It verged on catastrophic. Snow only ever meant one thing and one thing only in that city: traffic mayhem. It sufficed a slight drift to happen and all roads were blocked, a light dusting and all travels were delayed. Still, it would hardly ever come to be a full blanket of white, of that Henry was sure. Instead, snow would pile up on the side of the roads, melting into murky slush and mud.

The phone pressed to his ear vibrated with the sound of a sigh, that exhalation of tiredness perfectly capturing his mood.

_“I don’t know, nephew. For all intents and purposes the man doesn’t exist.”_

_Lambert Simnel_  certainly didn’t sound like a real name. What an interesting bit of information to add to the list of ongoing catastrophic events!

“Tell me. How can a man that doesn’t exist simply go and file a complaint against our patent when—mind you—the application has been going on for almost two years?”

_“I know this is all quite strange, but hear me out on this. Bray has contacted the IPO regarding the counter-statement. Indeed we haven’t found any activity concerning the intellectual property Simnel claims to have the rights to, or any activity under that name whatsoever.”_

A scoff escaped his lips almost uncontrollably. “Brilliant! This is sounding better by the minute.”

Henry thought it all so absurd he could laugh, he could fill the room with a loud, obnoxious guffaw. The very walls could be booming for all the laughing he could do. Yet, for all his mirthless amusement, he only reached under his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to stay level-headed.

_“We needn’t worry, Henry. The IPO itself has issued a search report by now.”_

“That’ll still slow us down. I wasn’t bloody counting on it.”  

The application had just been published. Three, six months at most and their patent would be granted. Three, six months at most and Henry would be bidding his job adieu and taking life by the reins.

_“Yet consider this for a minute. We don’t need the patent to start running the startup.”_

“Yes, but what would stop someone like Simnel or whatever-his-name-is from copying from us? Uncle, you know once we make it public we cannot ask for the licence.”

 _“The application is under way._ _Legally we won’t be jeopardising our chances_.”

Henry had his phone switch hands. His shoulders hurt from the tension, so hunched they had become in a short span of minutes. “No, what we need to do now is stop this dispute from going to court. I say we should avoid litigation at all costs.”

 _“I agree. Amical as amical goes is the only way now_.”

Henry sighed, raking some hair strands back into place. He definitely needed a cigarette. He looked out the window to the people passing down on the street. From his height, all of them looked ant-sized: obscure, going on their unknown journeys, trapped in layers and layers of clothing.

“You know this looks like an inside job, don’t you?”

He heard another, equally frustrated sigh on the line.

_“...Unfortunately so, nephew.”_

“Now it begs the question: _who_? Which one of our intended partners had a look at our proposal and decided to screw us up only for the sport?”

If that Simnel guy didn’t really exist, then the case wasn’t something to despair over. Worst case scenario and the claimant would come up with some blatant false evidence, something that would take them a while, yes, but something Henry was confident enough they would be able to disprove entirely. The problem was the whole detour of the process when they were finally on the verge of launching the business.

“I don’t like where this is going. We’ve got to deal with this claimant as swiftly as possible.”

“ _I know, Harri. We’ll try our best_.”

 _Harri._ That overly familiar, reassuring vocative. His uncle hadn’t called him by his Welsh nickname since he was seventeen. Hearing it uttered now, it shocked Henry into a course back to the past, sent his memory plummeting to the years they lived together in France. Henry had never really liked that nickname, but that particular fact hadn’t stopped his uncle from amusing himself with it. It was _‘Harri’_ this, _‘Harri’_ that, taunting him in Welsh (‘ _one ought to know one’s culture, after all!’_ ), jovially teasing him in the name of Saint David and all the saints combined until one day Henry showed up with a black eye for daring to take a stand against a bully.

This was Henry Tudor as a teenager recently arrived in France: expat, four-eyed, slim verging on gangly, with a solid grasp of French but not cool enough to speak slang or verlain at the time (how was he supposed to know what a _‘meuf’_ was, or _‘beuh’,_ or whatever it meant to be ‘ _chelou_ ’?) Perhaps worst of all Henry was British, an unforgivable offence to some. To sum up, he was one of the easiest targets at the lycée. The price for his insubordination that day had been traditional: a sound, proper thrashing — but afterwards, waiting at the headmaster's office, his uncle only laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled, all paternal and grave. _Well done, Henry_. _Well done_.

How the memory still made his heart swell with pride, years and years after the fact. Henry remembered the odd sensation at the time, the ice pressed to one swollen brow bone, the pain, the towel partially blocking his vision. He remembered how his uncle’s words sent his mind spinning: _is this how it feels to have a father?_

“Uncle…”

_“Yes, Henry?”_

He touched the surface of the window with his fingertips, felt the cold sinking into his skin. _We need to catch up_ was what he was about to say, but the statement didn’t even begin to encompass all that he truly felt at that moment.

 _I miss the old times_.

He could picture his uncle just now, as though he was standing in front of him in the same room. It was easy to do: something in the way his uncle smiled, something that flicked inside his eyes when he blinked. In the way he smoothed down his old green jacket, in the way he swung his hands inside the pockets. Like the glimpse of the boy he had once been beneath all those layers of time, beneath his greying hair and the wrinkles that pricked at the side of his eyes. As if, suddenly, it was possible to turn back the track of all those years.

“Uncle, I—”

A tapping on his officer’s door startled Henry out of his reverie. He turned, only to see Pierre Landais visible through the narrow slit of the door window.

“—I need to go.”

His uncle’s simple but self-resigned _ok_  could only be described as fit to a martyr. It didn’t escape Henry how it wasn’t the first time he had dismissed his uncle over the phone, but he had no choice in the matter. Just now, there were bigger problems outside his door. Henry pushed up his glasses, fixed his tie and put on a smile. It was showtime.

He opened the door swiftly, one arm extended and ready for a handshake. “Mr Landais, what a surprise! Please, do come in. How can I help you today?”

Unlike with François, Henry never spoke with Pierre Landais in French. Language was a home, a whole other nation trafficked across the sea, a nest lodged in the very heart of exile. Henry would never give him the privilege or the comfort of speaking in his mother tongue. Just now how the little Frenchman puffed his chest and bobbed his nose at him, almost like a bird or a doll held on strings. Actually, with that balding head of his, the thinning hair at the sides, he was starting to look rather like an egg.

“Mr Tudor, I have come to—”

Henry held out a hand. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you, but I’ve just received an email concerning a matter of urgent business.” He took out his phone and shot a quick glance at the screen, as though he had just received the notification. “So, if you don’t mind waiting a bit, please do take a seat.”

He pulled out the chair across his desk and angled it towards Landais, an invitation that didn’t give much time for the assistant to deny it. Landais lowered himself into the chair, warily checking his surroundings as if entering into enemy territory. The very sight of him was aesthetically displeasing to Henry: his suit was tailored too tight for a man his age, the pattern on his tie was awfully tacky, like something straight out of the 70s. Yet, as revolting as the image was to him, Henry did his best to look tranquil and undisturbed as he went around the desk and resumed his own seat.

His fingers hit the keyboard randomly, unconnected words making up for incoherent paragraphs. Yes, Henry would take his time to reply to that imaginary email, however much impatient his boss’ assistant might grow. In fact, he _wanted_ him to grow impatient. _Pauvre con_ , Henry couldn’t help thinking, hiding a smile by way of scratching his nose. Landais should have sent for him — that was the first and most basic rule of intimidation. Instead, he had come to Henry’s office and that would be his biggest mistake that day. His room, his rules.

Henry took hold of the cafetière on his desk and poured down a cup. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

Henry pushed the small cup towards the assistant anyway. “I insist.”

Landais had no other choice but drinking it. He immediately made a face, though to his credit he tried to conceal it as best as he could. The coffee was terrible. Henry was usually very handy with his French Press, but his mind had been so occupied with the Simnel affair all day he had let the coffee brewing for too long, or perhaps he had used too-hot water. Whatever mistake it had been, the result was that his usually rich, full-bodied cup of coffee had acquired a bitter, burnt aftertaste. Henry knew that all too well when he offered Landais that cup.

Henry reached for his notepad and made a series of illegible scrawls on the paper. Every morning the first thing he did as soon as he arrived at work was to write a to-do list. The satisfaction of crossing out a task was almost orgasmic. _Click-click_ , he pressed his pen. _Click-click. Click-click. Click-click._

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Landais trying not to wince. The assistant had his gaze fixed on one point, Lizzie’s picture to be precise. Henry had been the one to take it, though Lizzie had printed it, framed it and sent it to his office. It was Lizzie with her bright smile, holding a greyhound puppy at some London dog fair. Henry had never met someone as crazy about dogs as Lizzie. She did the squeakiest sounds whenever she saw one on the street.

He saw Landais looking at the picture then lifting his eyes to him, glancing back at the picture then at him again, eyes in back and forth motion. Henry couldn’t hide his smile that time. Landais didn’t much like the sight of it.

“Mr Tudor, I’m afraid I can no longer—”

“How do you feel about greyhounds?”

Landais stopped mid-sentence, frowning. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dogs.” He clasped his hands together. “Do you like them?”

Landais still looked frankly bewildered, so Henry supplied him some explanation. “You see, my girlfriend—” He pointed at the picture, letting the assistant know he had caught him looking at it. “—loves greyhounds. They’re her favourite dog breed. It so happens that my mother was gifted one such dog this week. We would love to keep it, but unfortunately neither of us has the space.”

The Frenchman was frowning so hard by now, he had a deep crevice in the middle of his forehead. He sounded half-astonished, which only made his accent more pronounced. “Are you trying to sell me a dog?”

“That depends.” Henry smiled, leaning back on his chair with ease. “Are you looking to buy one?”

Landais scoffed and looked around, as though he couldn’t quite believe they were having that conversation in the first place. “Tudor, I don’t want to buy your dog!”

“Not my dog. Technically, my mother’s.”

“Still!”

“Now that’s a pity. You see, a man like you—let me guess, married, two kids?” Landais dropped his left hand at the mention, but Henry had already seen quite well the pale mark siting where a wedding band had once been, the sign of a new divorcé. “A man like you could use a dog. They are, after all, loyal, honest creatures. Not quite what we see in humans, is it?”

Henry shot him a significant look as the word _honest_ was spoken, but it seemed Landais had lost all his patience by then to take the hint. He fixed his horribly tacky tie and changed the subject.

“Tudor, what I’ve been trying to say, but you kept interrupting me—”

“Again, terribly sorry for that.”

Landais glared at him with such intensity, it was a miracle Henry didn’t just drop dead on the spot. “—is that I’ve noticed a number of suspicious activities concerning you and some of your fellow co-workers. Most notably, Mr Woodville, Daubeney, Willoughby—”

He kept on listing names as though they were all Henry’s accomplices standing trial next to him. _I have noticed_ , Landais had said, not _we_ or any other term that could indicate the assistant had taken the issue forward. If he hadn’t done it by then, and instead had chosen to come to Henry’s office to confront him, it could only mean one thing: he had no proof. He had no proof of any _suspicious_ activity and was instead trying to intimidate Henry into talking.

“Sorry to interrupt you again, but are you accusing me of starting a cult?” Henry offered him his most good-humoured smile. “Right here, at the office? Why, Landais, you flatter me. I wouldn’t think myself so bold.”

The assistant was fuming, a blue veined had just popped on his forehead. He reopened his mouth to speak, but Henry cut him short, all pleasantry gone. He folded his hands atop the desk and shot him a deadly cold look.

“Mr Landais, I will speak quite frankly with you now. If you so happen to have any concerns or complaints about my person, this is not the place you should be addressing. In fact, we have a whole team dedicated to that issue. I’m quite sure you’re aware of that yourself.”

Henry glanced down and up again, faking graveness and concern. “As a matter of fact, someone in that team—Thomas Grey, I’m sure you know the man—told me a lot about some of the searches he’s been doing. Some interesting stuff about you too, Landais. Did you know?”

The assistant went deadly still. Surely that conversation hadn’t gone anywhere near where he thought it would. He ran a hand along his thinning brown hair, not quite apologetically. “Of course there are always those who wish to slander my name.”

“Is that so? I’d advise you to go look into it, then.” Henry gathered some of the papers in his desk and pointed towards the door with his pen. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got work to do. Slander and gossip are really not my forte.”

Landais stood up without another word. Having his head bent over the papers, Henry couldn’t see whether the assistant had his usual forced smile on. He heard the door close shut and Henry finally lifted his head, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. _That had been fucking close_. His boss François rather liked him, but the man was fickle and easily persuaded. It seemed to be true, after all, the popular saying: a spectacularly bad day could always get worse.

 

* * *

 

Lizzie hated being late, and yet, it seemed she was always running late, or rather, always _almost_ late. She would arrive at all her appointments on time — not a minute earlier, not a second later — as though she was the perfect example of British punctuality. Little did they know that she would have had to climb the stairs two steps at a time to be able to do such a feat, would have had to cross the roads at full speed, paying little attention to traffic lights, throwing caution out the window. The adrenaline rush felt good from time to time, if it only meant she would get to her destination in time. Alas, it had not been the case that day.

Good thing it was only Cecily she was supposed to meet that evening. Lizzie arrived at the designated bar with her cheeks flushed from running, stepping around the crowded tables to hug her sister tight and press a kiss to her cheek. _I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry_ , she kept repeating, squeezing her sister like she used to do when they were kids. She had spent twenty minutes on the tube held up at red light signal for no seeming reason (it wasn’t even snowing yet!). She fretted and apologised over and over, but her sister kissed her back and called her _Lizaveta_ , something she only did when she was in high spirits.

Feeling thoroughly relieved, Lizzie shrugged off her coat and went around the table to take her seat — but when the time came to unwind her scarf, she had to do it very carefully so as to not let her collar drop. It had been almost a week since Henry had given her that love bite and still it hadn’t fade away. Worse, other small marks had appeared on her chest on the following days. The last thing she wanted was for her sister to start teasing her about her sex life. The thought alone was enough to make Lizzie want to bury her head in the sand.

“Where’s Maggie?” asked Cece, craning her neck left and right in search of their cousin. “I thought she was coming with you.”

“Oh,” Lizzie had to drop her voice. “She had an emergency.”

“A _Teddy_ emergency?”

“Just so.” They exchanged a look. “Teddy had a fit, but don’t worry. Maggie went out to fetch him so he’ll be spending the weekend with us.”

“Oh, that’s... good to know.” Cece matched her awkward, hushed tone. They never knew how to deal with their cousin’s situation. “Although it _is_ a pity she couldn’t come. It was supposed to be a York girls sort of night. Anne is still a tad too young to be joining us for drinks, I reckon.” She grinned, wrinkling her nose at Lizzie, turning a mischievous eye on her. “Not to mention I’m utterly _baffled_ I was able to drag you out for once! Ladies and gentlemen, what a feat!”

It had been a long-standing promise. Lizzie, wanting to act like a true big sister, had promised Cece to take her out for drinks as soon as she turned eighteen. Well, her sister’s 18th birthday had come and gone, but the time to make good on her word had finally come. Cecily had of course picked one of the trendiest bars in town: the _Sushisamba_ on Liverpool Street offered a spectacular panoramic view to the City — they could see all the London skyline from there: familiar skyscrapers like the Walkie Talkie and the Gherkin, traditional landmarks such as St Paul’s and Tower Bridge. It was so high up in the clouds, the view went as far east as Canary Wharf. Lizzie had to take a lift to the 39th floor, a ride on a glass box that made her ascent all the more vertiginous.

Everything in that bar was, of course, outrageously expensive. The waiter smiled with such fake cordiality as he explained the meaning of the dishes, a fusion between Japanese, Peruvian and Brazilian cuisine, the least they could do was enjoying themselves with each mouthful of sushi rolls. Salmon, tempura crunch, chives, sesame, garlic chips, sweet potato, a mix of everything. Lizzie wanted her sister to try it all, including their most sugary drinks — Vodka mixed with elderflower and vanilla, infused with crème de pêche. Mango cream and passion fruit. Salted caramel and maple. Japanese plum wine, lightly carbonated, spritzed with soda. Drinks served over crushed ice, drinks served on the rocks, over a large ice block.

The tipsier they got, the merrier they laughed. Having fun with Cece was one of the easiest things to do, it activated a well-known circuit inside her brain. Lizzie was already dreaming about the time her sister would come live with them — Cecily was just about to start her applications to get into university after all — but then, unexpectedly, Cece told her she wasn’t thinking of staying in London at all.

“Scotland?!” Lizzie opened her eyes large, as though she could hear her sister better by doing that. She sat there blinking like an idiot, looking owlishly at Cece and praying that it was only the alcohol messing with her head.

Cecily, on the contrary, was perfectly serene. “Yes, Glasgow!” She sipped from her straw, smiling and humming, her golden locks shiny and bouncy as she nodded her head. They looked quite alike, the York sisters, though Lizzie considered Cece to be prettier. Her sister's features were sharper, her cheekbones more pronounced. Lizzie had heard she had the prettiest eyes of the two, but she suspected it was only because hers looked kinder.

No amount of pleading for her to stay could dissuade her sister from her decision. _She was tired of pretending she was happy in London,_ Cecily said quite simply and unaffectedly, to her sister’s greatest shock. And then, to add to her astonishment:

“Besides, it’s not the same for me here. I’m not living in a Lana del Rey song like you.” She winked. “I haven’t found my sugar daddy yet.”

Her glass landed soundly on the table. “Henry is  _not_ my sugar daddy!”

Cecily looked at her with such an stunned expression, Lizzie realised she had spoken a tad too loud. She looked around at the nearby tables, yet thankfully no one was paying attention to her. The bar’s customers were composed mostly of a young, hip crowd. All Lizzie heard was the noise of ongoing conversations and the clattering of cutlery.

“Sorry I was so defensive about it.” She looked down, stirring her drink with a straw. “It’s just… it’s a sensitive topic, ok?”

“But… why?”

She had expected Cecily to be angry or hurt at her outburst, but the only thing she saw etched on her sister’s face was concern, pure and simple.

“I’m… I mean…” She let out a sigh. Lizzie should probably tell someone that story at some point, shouldn’t she? So why not there, why not to her sister? Lizzie took a deep breath and forced herself to go on.

“Last week, at a party, one of Henry’s— well, one of his intended associates came over to me and he… he sort of… called me… Henry’s whore.”

“Wha—what—who?”

The memory shamed her so, she couldn’t even look at her sister. She chose to focus on the ceiling instead. It had a lovely bamboo decoration.

“I mean, he didn’t use exactly those words.” _Yet he implied them_. “I guess I did look a bit slaggy, though… So that’s on me. I shouldn’t have gone dressed like that.”

She should never have worn that red dress. That had been a stupid decision of hers.

“Lizzie…”

“He did call me an idiot, though. A pillock.”

She chuckled, even though at that moment she felt more like crying. The lights hanging from the ceiling turned blurred, almost phosphorescent as her eyes squeezed, but she felt Cece’s hand covering her own.

“Lizzie, look. I’m sure he was just some sad wanker. What did Henry say to him?”

Lizzie blinked, trying to focus on her sister’s face again. “What did… what did Henry say, you ask?”

“Yes, what did he say, what did he do?” Cece urged her on impatiently, but all she needed was a quick look at Lizzie to get the whole picture.

“Oh god… you haven’t told him, have you?”

Lizzie retrieved her hand, angrily wiped one treacherous tear. “Cecily, what do you think he would do? Punch that guy? Henry is not like that.”

Knowing him, she was sure he was more likely to screw de la Pole’s life all over by any means possible rather than solving the matter with his fists. Lizzie was _not_ about to start a trojan war all because she looked too stupid for her own good. Henry had been working too hard to get his company off the ground for her to simply go and ruin his efforts. He needed those people on his side, however much hateful they might be.

“Besides,” she pressed on. “The insult was on Henry too. Don’t you think it would hurt his feelings if he knew people think we’re only together because of his money?”

“Henry’s feelings?” Her sister scoffed, incredulously. “Now that’s a nice one! Lizzie, if not for the way he looks at you I’d think he had none!”    

> _I have exactly three feelings_ , he had once joked, sticking out three fingers as he listed them. _Number one:_ _spite_ (she laughed). _Number two:_ _smugness_ (“you _must_ be joking!”). _And of course, the most important of all_ : _you_.

“Don’t ever say that, Cece. You don’t know him."

“Lizzie, what exactly are you trying to achieve here? Best girlfriend of the year award?” Her sister shook her head, looking increasingly angry. “Do you think you’re protecting his feelings by hurting your own?”

Lizzie looked down, tucked a hair strand behind her ear. “I’m _trying_.” Her sister’s disapproval didn’t stop the words from fleeing her mouth, soft and confessional. “I love him.”

Cecily slammed both hands on the table. “Fuck Henry and his feelings! They can get stuffed for all I care—”

“ _Cecily!_ ”

“—I’m going to punch that bloody dickhead myself, then! What was his name? I’ve got two fists of my own, you see!”

Lizzie was caught so off guard by her sister’s sudden and half-drunk raging, she let out a nervous, high-pitched laughter. Cecily joined her in that drowsy state of incoherence, laughing along, eyeing her fondly as she reached across the table and pinched her cheek.

“Liselotte, you’re too soft! Somebody’s gotta take care of you.”

 _I can take care of myself_ , Lizzie protested, but only in her mind. She was going to miss her sister so much when the time came, she didn’t want to keep arguing with her, not that night.

“What was the name of that prick? I’ve got to put him on my death list.”

Lizzie looked around, suddenly afraid he’d be nearby. She had not thought de la Pole could be dangerous before, but she realised she didn’t know a thing about the man. She leaned forward and dropped her voice so low only Cece could hear it. “ _John de la Pole_.”

Cecily went serious and paused for several seconds, frowning. “Lizzie, I think I actually know that name. I don’t know from where, though. Do you?”

Her sister wasn’t alone in that feeling. Lizzie didn’t exactly remember his face, but his name had indeed sounded familiar. Over the past week she had tried to search her memory for any recollection of him but the more she thought about de la Pole, the more she dwelled on her memories of her father and his parties, the more Lizzie felt like a house pet that was brought along, an ornament, a bibelot. Her life revolved around two things: her looks or her name. Lizzie pushed her collar a little higher, gingerly touched the necklace Henry had given her with two fingers. An uncomfortable feeling stirred inside her, as unthinkable and wrong as it felt to her: the one of being branded, claimed like an asset.

“I don’t want to talk about that man anymore. Please.”

She should get over herself, Lizzie decided. _Nothing_ had happened. She had been insulted, yes, but there were so many worse things that happened to women all around the world. Clearly, she was overreacting. Judging herself overly sensitive, Lizzie asked for the bill. She wanted to go home, wanted to go where she could lie down and sulk alone. 

By the time the waiter came back with the bill holder, though, she was still looking for her credit card. Cecily wasn’t much of a help. As Lizzie scavenged her handbag in search of the missing item, Cece just sat there sipping on her drink, taking Lizzie’s own when hers was finished.

“Gosh, are you sure it’s not there? Lizzie, are you sure? Did you look again?” She kept asking, question after question. “Lizzie, do you think someone nicked it?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

Her handbag looked just fine, it didn’t display cuts or any other traces of someone sneaking a hand in it. Truth be told, Lizzie didn’t even remember looking at her credit card that day. Inside her purse there was only her oyster card and a debit card with next to no money on it. She had left home in such a rush, she _could_ have left it behind. Lizzie rubbed her eyes, an accusatory voice plaguing her head. _How could she be so air-headed at times?_ She had promised her sister she would take her out for drinks and now they were about to wash the dishes.

“Lizzie, I haven’t got a quid on me! I say there's only one way out: you must ring your boyfriend.”

At her negative, ' _I’m not dragging him out here'_ rebuttal, Cece insisted. “It’s _Friday night,_ Lizzie. What is he doing anyway? Went out for some rounds with the lads?”

 _Rounds with the lads?_ Lizzie let out a huff of pure astonishment. Cecily didn’t know him at all!

“Henry is _working!_ ”

Lizzie didn't know exactly until what time, but Henry had told her he would stay late at the office that Friday.

Her sister shrugged. “Well, boring and unsurprising of him for sure, but that’s good news for us. It means he’s just in the area. Just give him a ring, won’t you!”

“Cecily, I’m not calling Henry.”

“Would you rather have us wash the dishes, then?” Her sister made a pout. “Lizzie, why are you like that? From all of daddy’s flaws, why did you have to pick his pride?”

Lizzie stood up. The words stung, they pierced, they bruised. As much as she didn't want to admit it, there was some terrible truth in them. Years of putting her dad up on a pedestal started slowly crumbling at her feet.

Her sister’s fingers reached for her. “Liselotte, I didn’t mean it… Please stay, it’s the alcohol talking.”

Yet _in vino veritas_.

“No, I guess I _am_ proud, innit?” She disentangled herself from her sister’s grasp. “I’m calling Henry.”

It was at that moment that Lizzie realised it: much like her sister, she too had had too many drinks for her own good. Her legs felt wobbly as she made her way to the loo, her vision was blurred, spinning at the edges. She stared too long at her mobile screen making sure she was ringing Henry’s contact and none other. The floor quaked as she talked to him on the phone, staring at her reflection, staring, staring, feeling her cheeks aflame. It was like Henry’s voice was the only thing keeping her tethered, but he soon ended the call with his usual ' _I’ll be there in ten'_. No matter where he was, he always made his way to her in under ten minutes. Lizzie wasn’t quite sure how he did it.

She returned to her table feeling limbless, almost weightless. Cece looked too shamefaced to attempt any conversation, so Lizzie just kept staring at that glowing orange tree behind the counter, the bar's strangest decoration. Staring, staring at it. It seemed to be moving, it seemed to be swinging its branches and the leaves were rustling, they were speaking in secrets. Lizzie blinked and it was Christmas again: a million colours jumped from leaf to leaf like fairy lights and there was that buzzing sound—

“Lizzie.”

She almost jumped out of her chair. Henry stood beside her, his scarf still wound around his neck, his briefcase in hand, dressed in that black overcoat that went down to his shins. How did he get there so fast and so soundlessly?

“Oh hey there, Henry!” Cece called from her side of the table. “What’s up, mate?”

Lizzie cringed, she felt her ears burning. Her sister, evidently feeling embarrassed herself, was trying to make it up to Henry in the worst of ways. She didn’t even have a clue of how loud she was talking.

Henry turned his cool eyes on her sister, almost mechanically. “Hello.” He said simply. No more, no less.

“Long time, no see, huh? What’ve you been up to?”

 _Oh my god._ Lizzie covered her face. She had never seen her sister drunk. Why was Cecily talking to Henry like he was one of her mates from school?

“Not much.”

“Cool! Oh hey, did you know? There’s something Lizzie didn’t tell you.”

She dropped her hands in time to see Henry slowly dragging his eyes back to her, one eyebrow raised just slightly, and Lizzie felt like dying on the spot. She let out an agonising plea, a goose-like sound, voice coming off her nose.

“ _Cecily_ …..”

“I’m going to tell you now!”

“ _Please……”_

Her sister blinked for some seconds. “It’s my birthday today!”

A wave of relief flowed over her, but still she turned to Henry, shaking her head. “It’s not! It really isn’t.”

“But we’re celebrating it tonight so it might as well be! Yeay!”

“Congratulations.” Henry replied stiffly, turning to Lizzie again. “Where’s the bill?”

Lizzie had never thought she could feel so mortified in her entire life. Henry took his time to read the bill, eyes hardly blinking behind his glasses. His face was unreadable, his jaw, resolutely set. Lizzie didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know what he was probably thinking.

They left the bar in embarrassed silence, feeling like two badly behaved kids, Henry leading the way out like mother goose and her stray goslings. Her sister tried several conversation lines at Henry, but he engaged in none. Even to his standards, he was uncommonly close-mouthed that night. Stepping out on the pavement, the tip of his nose turned all red. It was the coldest night of the year, Lizzie felt the truth of it on her fingertips.

“Liselotte, look!” Her sister cried. “It’s finally snowing!”

“This is _sleet_ , not snow.” grumbled Henry with his gloves, opening his umbrella and taking out his phone.

Lizzie opened her own umbrella, pink and smaller than Henry’s black one, but still she reached out to cover Cece under it. “Are we getting a cab?”

“We’re getting an _uber_.”

 _Right_ , Lizzie reminded herself, they were still to take her sister home. Now outside, with all those water crystals falling around, her vision started whirling again. Her body leaned sideways, not quite able to sustain her sister’s weight, and she took a faltering step, and maybe she and her sister would have dropped to the ground together if not for Henry lacing his arm with hers and folding her hand into his elbow.

She looked at Henry in what she expected to be a loving, thankful way, but what turned out to be her just staring at him, glazed-eyed and blinking repeatedly. Her vision tunnelled, dimmed at the edges, his blue eyes standing as a lighthouse, safe and bright. She felt the urge to touch his cheekbones, to feel his skin under her hands, but she didn’t.

“Henry…” She started, though she hardly knew where to begin. “I’m sure I just left my card at home. I can transfer you the money as soon as—"

“Don’t worry about it.” He dismissed it with an awkward wave of his hand, looking rather uncomfortable as he pushed up his glasses.

Henry’s whole existence seemed to revolve around money — he worked in finance, had immaculate budget worksheets that he spent a lot of time on, was always talking about investments, the growing cryptocurrency market and whatnot — and yet, they never discussed the topic when it came to their relationship.

“But I think we should talk about it.”

Their uber had just arrived and was rounding around the corner. Henry walked them towards the car, leaned forward to open the door. “We’ll talk later.”

“But I think—”

“Elizabeth.” Henry turned to face her again. “I said we’ll talk later.”

E l i z a b e t h  

         E l i z a b e t h  

                  E l i z a b e t h

Not _Lizzie_. Not _darling_. Not _sugar cane_. _Elizabeth_. She couldn’t remember a single time Henry hadn't called her by her nickname.

Lizzie was stunned into silence and in silence she remained the whole ride, the lamplights flashing by her window like a sequence out of a dream. Her eyelids closed and opened again, closed and opened. She saw her sister getting out of the car and she didn’t want to let her go ( _She was a child! A beautiful child! The prettiest child she had ever seen! She shouldn’t be going away to Scotland, that child!_ ), heard Cece muttering something that sounded like ' _Bye, Lizaveta'_ , felt a peck on her cheek. She then let her head fall back, lolling against Henry’s shoulder, and all the world turned black.

She woke up the next morning feeling like her whole body was made of stone. There was a drum playing inside her head, a trombone too. The light coming through the window hurt her eyes. _Her window?_ Lizzie sat up on the mattress, her headache immediately intensifying. How did she get in her room? She had no recollection of it whatsoever. In her mind she had simply blinked and then suddenly it was next day. She looked down and saw she was wearing her pyjama top backwards. Her eyes scanned the room, still not quite believing she was there, but finding three peculiar items atop her nightstand: a glass of water, an ibuprofen pill, and a note. She opened the latter:  

> _Lizzie,_
> 
> _I had to run home and change. I hope you won’t be needing ibuprofen but it’s there in case you do. About your clothes: I tried to help you but you swatted my hands off. Don’t blame me._

She could _hear_ him saying that, could hear just the slightest teasing in his voice. _Don’t blame me_. Lizzie covered her eyes with her hands. How deeply embarrassing! To be drunk in front of anyone, but especially _him_! She let one hand fall to peek at the rest of the note:     

> _P.S.: Not saying that you will, but don’t forget we have brunch with my mum at 11._
> 
> _Yours, etc_
> 
> _H._

Oh Jesus Christ, what time was that? Lizzie almost tripped over herself in her haste to get to her mobile, but she couldn’t even begin to search for her device. As soon as she stood up she felt like her whole stomach was up in arms against her, its contents churning, the walls squeezing. She had to get to the loo as fast as possible, she felt it rising up in her throat: she needed to throw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
>  
> 
>  
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> 
> Let me know if you got this far ♡


	8. Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He simply stood there with his rose, pathetically interrupted in his greeting, mouth gaping like a dead fish on a market stall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had finished this chapter long ago but it was a struggle finding the time to edit it. I apologise for the delay. It's the next day following last chapter.
> 
> For reference:  
> The Sky Garden [[x](https://www.instagram.com/sg_skygarden/)]

_Saturday, 11:41 a.m._

 

Outside there were winds sweeping through the crowds, howling and blowing along the Thames path; there were overcast skies and bone-cutting cold, there was rubbing of hands and running of noses. Faces framed by hats and scarves, hands hidden inside pockets and gloves. Inside, however, the weather couldn’t be more different than a typical winter day. At the _Sky Garden_ — for all intents and purposes, a greenhouse at the top of a skyscraper — the palm leaves and the tree ferns were gently swaying, the evergreens were alive with a luscious and bright pigmentation. It was worth spending a long time just drinking in the sight of that landscape garden, though there were no flowers whatsoever to be seen. The vegetation under the roof canopy was clean and sharp, dominated by drought-resistant species, innovative yet simple, straightforward, almost geometrical. His mother, Henry thought as he sipped his coffee across from her, was much the same.

On their table a few dishes had already been emptied: a spoonful of truffle cream lasted untouched as the artichoke soup was finished, flaky bread crumbs remained as proof of their dutifully eaten eggs Florentine. Both of them were light eaters (one might even say his mother lived in a perpetual state of Lent) but frugality was just one of the several traits the two had in common. Mother and son looked uncannily alike: the high sharp cheekbones and the deep-set blue eyes were just the beginning of it, though in height Margaret Beaufort was considerably shorter than her son. Henry suspected that, had he spent more time with his mother growing up, he would undoubtedly display many of her characteristic mannerisms: the rising of a single eyebrow, the smile growing higher on one cheek than the other, the slight wrinkle between the eyebrows when deep in thought (he wondered if he’d display all those traits as he grew older — he _would_ , he decided at once, it only felt like the natural course of things).

Their resemblance had been a great source of solace in his childhood, a reassuring comfort when away from his mother and attending boarding school. Henry would always swell a bit with pride when people remarked on how much he looked like Margaret Beaufort. There was no higher compliment in his eyes, no possible higher praise. Yet, one day his mother had told him there was much of his father in him, that she could always see the ghost of her first husband hovering over him, like a reminder she couldn’t quite brush aside. That statement had haunted him. A ten-year-old Henry had first denied it vehemently, vigorously shaking his head from side to side, then he had fled to the mirror to confront his own reflection: _Where is he?_ Searching for any traces of that unknown father: was it his ears, his chin, the set of his jaw? And everywhere in his body where he didn’t see his mother, he would question it: _Is that him?_ — applying the same hardness of an interrogating inspector: analytical, skeptical, suspicious — or rather, Henry would ask the question his reflection could never answer: _Who is he?_

The one picture he had found at his mother’s house was unclear: it was too blurred, the contrast too high. There was simply a shadowy figure obscured, blinded by light. Henry suspected that, for some reason or other, his mother had not been too keen in keeping a record of his father. So he had looked to his uncle Jasper, in vain. His mother had warned him the Tudors brothers had looked nothing alike. _"But what do I know? It was so long ago"_ , she had remarked one day, her voice distant. _"Perhaps my memory is mistaken. Perhaps I’m misremebering."_ Yet Henry knew his mother, mostly because he knew himself. Neither of them ever forgot a thing. Seeing how the topic upset her, he had decided to stop asking about Edmund Tudor. All his life, he had never had any need of him.

At that moment Henry was sat across his mother, watching her head bob up and down as she talked on the phone. There should have been three people at their table. Instead, the chair beside his own was empty, the plate placed on the table near him was equally devoid of contents. That particular chair arrangement was done on purpose: sitting beside his girlfriend, the meeting would feel more like a family gathering and less like a job interview. It didn’t exactly worked, for his mother had been talking to Lizzie over the phone for what felt like well over ten minutes. His fingers drummed on the table, he shifted in his chair again and again. When that call finally ended, his mother silently handed back his phone. Henry found himself uttering apologies.

“I’m sorry. This is unacceptable, I know—” He fumbled for words, terribly afraid to disappoint his mother, a lifelong fear. “Lizzie—she’s not like that. Not like that at all.”

His mother gave him a small smile, but following that look, that characteristic inquisitive look, it did next to nothing to reassure him.

“I don’t know what happened... It must have been her sister Cecily. Yes, yes, that must be it. Cecily. She’s a terrible influence on her.”

“I like Cecily.”

Henry first blinked, then frowned, his whole face melting into a state of perplexity. It astonished him that his mother would utter such a statement out of thin air.

“You… like Cecily.”

“God didn’t give me any daughters, Henry.” The look she gave him was humourous, the frail sunlight of the day reflected on her clear, luminous eyes. “Don’t blame me for liking the girl.”

“Well, ok, anyway,” Henry fought down a scoff, shoving that absurd piece of information to the back of his mind. "I want to assure you Lizzie didn't mean any disrespect. She means well, she just... needs more discipline in her life, I think.”

“And who is going to teach her? You?”

That time Henry couldn’t stop himself from scoffing. “I’m not her father.”

“Then stop trying to act like you are.”

Henry blinked, pushed back his glasses. Taken aback, he opened and closed his mouth without making a sound, but that didn’t stop his mother from pressing on. She calmly stirred her coffee as all those contractions flashed across his face.

“There's no need for all this fuss. I can see quite well myself she didn't mean it.” Spoon landing on the saucer with a clank. “When I spoke to her, the girl sounded on the verge of tears.”

_Shit, did she?_

“I... I didn't think she—”

“Oh come, now, enough of this business." She shot him a stern yet playful look, the face every parent puts on when admonishing their favourite child. "She’s young, Henry!" His mother chided. "And a full human being on top of that, not some heavenly angel."

 _No matter how much she might look like one to you_ , her expression seemed to say. Even after all those years, how easily his mother could read him! She took a sip from her coffee, an accusatory eyebrow raised at him. “And who on God's earth can say they never had a hangover in their life?”

“Well, _I_ haven’t.” He sipped from his own cup, trying to rein in a conversation that had suddenly turned into a scolding session. “Have you?”

His mother didn’t say anything back. Instead, she chose to shoot him a strange, significant look, one of her many expressions that spoke so much without uttering a word. Henry choked on his coffee.

“Mother!”

She pursed her lips and smiled, arching both her eyebrows that time. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answers.”

To those who didn’t know her well, Margaret Beaufort was said to be hard on people. That couldn’t explain how many friends she had, or how well connected she had been all her life. There were times his mother might come across as strict or demanding, but she was never cold. On the contrary, she was unbelievably generous to her friends, always putting the needs of those she loved above her own. It was part of who she was as a person: that kind of genuine, pure-hearted goodwill that wasn’t held back by trifling and empty niceties.  _She didn't mince words_ , as she would often say herself.

“I will speak to Lizzie, if that gives you any comfort. Let me see when I’m available.”

His mother put on her reading glasses, something that always made her look unbelievably quaint. She tapped and slid her fingers on her mobile screen to get to her agenda (she always insisted on being acquainted with the latest technology, something Henry admired her for), then she stopped to ponder.

“Next Saturday, perhaps.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll able to next Saturday—”

“Who said anything about you? This is between me and Lizzie.” His mother gave him that humourous look again. “After all, she may come to be my daughter-in-law, won't she?”

Despite her lighthearted tone, Henry knew the question his mother was hinting at. He wiped his lips with a serviette.

“All in its due time, I say."

His mother raised her eyebrows again and nodded as she finished her coffee, but didn’t comment further on the topic.

How was he supposed to tell her he had already spent countless hours looking at engagement rings, but so far couldn’t decided on which stone to give? A moonstone was too simple, a diamond was too cliché. Lately he had been considering settling on a white opal for its iridescence, for its playful catch of colours (something that, he reckoned, would make Lizzie smile as she slid the ring on her finger). Yet, like everything else in his life, Henry wasn’t going to decide it on a whim. He had had no time yet to get it sorted.

They left the brasserie area to take a stroll along the garden. Outside on the balcony, people were fighting against the winds to take the perfect picture with the city buildings as the background, but all those impressive views could be seen from the inside. Wandering among the vegetation, the glass panels by his right side, the sight of the yellowish walls of the Tower of London made Henry stop for a moment. There from Fenchurch Street, it looked solitary and harmless, ancient and dormant. How strangely one adopts the superstitions of other people! Lizzie for some reason had never liked the sight of the Tower, and it seemed the same feeling had started growing on him. Henry checked himself, fixing himself a bit straighter. He needed to dispel that sudden ominous feeling.

"I'm afraid there's something I need to ask you, mum." He stepped away from the window, turning his back on Tower Hill. The cool shadow of a tree fern fell on him, a soothing balm against the grey lightness of the clouds. "But I'm in a rather difficult position here. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

He wouldn’t ask it if he had less than absolute confidence in his mother. In view of the most recent events, he needed someone to investigate in the most discreet manner: could any of the Stanley brothers have been the one to sneak out the company plans? Henry had delegated a task to each of his most trusted personnel, but still the idea of asking his mother wouldn't leave his mind. There was one simple detail in that task, however, that made it all the more cumbersome: his mother had separated from Thomas Stanley mere months ago.

According to the laws in England, Margaret Beaufort had to submit evidence for at least one of the following grounds to be granted a divorce: adultery, unreasonable behaviour, desertion, or — given consent of both parties, and the path his mother had decided to take — two years of separation. There was no option for a marriage that had simply run its course. _Sometimes people just fall out of love_ , his mother had remarked simply, apparently unbothered by the gripping reality of her statement. _People change. People become other people_. The idea shouldn’t sound so appalling to Henry, and yet, for all his logical, mental exercises, it did.

Stepping closer to him now, the look his mother gave him pierced him to the core. It fell onto him like a flaming arrow burning in the sky.

“You know there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” She landed a soft hand on his forearm. “You know this, don't you? It is important for me that you know.”

Henry almost felt ashamed. Her words made him feel impossibly young again, they made him feel like a boy running to his mother’s side before bedtime. He wanted to bow his head to her again, lower it until it reached her hands. She would touch his chin and smile, lay a hand on the top of his head to say  _God bless you, my child_. Then, pressing the sign of the cross on his forehead, she would kiss it. _And Christ be with you_.

She was undaunted by what he had to ask. His mother reached for his left hand, her lean fingers taking hold of his own gently. Her index touched the graduation ring she had given him, the sight of which always made her smile. It had been an expensive gift, something that many people could think of as a snobbish display of wealth. Most students in the country only ever got a mug on the occasion of their graduation day, a free gift from uni that was so small in circumference it could barely fit a biscuit inside. Henry paid no mind to what other people could or could not say. He liked wearing that ring. He knew it stood as a symbol. One day, Henry vowed to himself, his mother would never have to sacrifice for him again.

She outstretched his fingers one by one. At his confused, _what-are-you-doing_ expression, she replied. “I’m looking at your nails.”

 _Why?_ Henry had always perfectly groomed himself. He spent a considerable sum in shaving and aftershave skincare products alone. He liked to think himself not as a vain man, but as a practical one: a polished appearance went a long way in business (not to mention, Lizzie dearly loved his cheek smooth).

As if reading his mind, his mother added an explanation. “If your nails look too yellow, that means you’re smoking too much.”

That observation was a half-scolding, his mother’s way of showing her dislike of one of his worst habits. No amount of grooming could erase his blind, dumb, pitiless need to just drag cigarette after cigarette. His mother would never plead with him to quit like Lizzie did. No, that was his girlfriend. Lizzie was all soft colours, sugar and pearls — his mother, much like himself, was russet, charcoal, deep tones of burgundy. Her hair was darker than his, her outfits were lean and practical, her usual attire a well-tailored skirt suit. She didn’t look like quite of this century, or any other century either. She was suspended in time, a sheer force of will, crystallised.

His mother pursed her lips at his clumsy, half-muttered lie. _No, mum, I’ve been perfectly fine_ , as if he hadn't spent the last few days pacing out and about, fingers itching for a cigarette whenever he had the chance to go outdoors.

She tilted her head sideways, thinking. “Did you know your uncle quit smoking last month? He’s given up on cigarettes, he says.”

Henry could only shake his head, astonished by the news. “He didn’t… He didn’t tell me anything.”

His throat got as dry as parchment. Since when had his relationship with his uncle spiralled down to business, to work-related issues only?

“Just as I thought." She hummed. "Jasper’s too prideful to tell you, the old sod.”

She smiled sadly before looking up to him again, her gaze turning serious and steadfast at once. "He's been feeling some chest pain lately, Henry. Angina. You see, he did the sensible thing and got himself a health check." She kept shaking her head, as though his uncle were there to see her. "It shouldn't come as a surprise for him, that is, high blood pressure. You know, I’ve always told him that would happen. The things he eats, not to mention the— Oh, there’s no need to look so stricken, dear!"

Seeing what could only be his face sharpened by concern, she cupped his cheek and gave it a light tapping. "It’s a trivial, reversible thing. Hardly something to fret about. And finally—” She raised a hand as if praising the sky. “—finally Jasper is thinking about his health for once. So there’s that to consider.” She smiled, squeezing his hand. "Have faith. Your uncle will be fine."

Henry nodded along, but still his heart sank in his chest. He felt it falling down, down — down ten floors, down twenty, down the height of the skyscraper they were in. _People are temporary_ , the logical part of his brain was telling him. But no matter how many times he repeated it to himself, the other part of him refused to listen. He liked things to be permanent. It seemed to be his fate they never were.

 

* * *

 

_Saturday, 07:09 p.m._

 

Fresh out of the night air, head cleared.

Henry climbed the stairs to Lizzie's flat, his feet touching the ground two steps at a time. He was carrying a single red rose. Some moments before he had stopped by the local Coop to buy some ibuprofen tablets and, just as he was about to leave the shop, he spotted the flower stalks by the checkout. The urge to give her one of the red roses settled on his mind then. He had set off to her place with a rose wrapped in brown paper and laced with a string. It was the wrong colour, he knew as much, but he was going to gift her anyway.

Henry stopped in front of her door, fixed his glasses and his hair with his one free hand. It was the wrong colour, the rose, but he was going to give it to her and tell her that he loved her. Yes, he was going to say that he loved her, unprompted that time, unasked. Henry took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. He was going to tell her that he loved her, hold her against him, kiss the tip of her nose, her hair, her lips. She would open the door and find him standing there — combed, dapper, holding out his red rose — and he would smile at her and say: _I love you_.

It was her cousin who opened the door.

"Lizzie is sleeping."

That was her way of greeting him, not wholly amicable, not considerably polite. She hadn’t even waited for him to finish his sentence. He simply stood there with his rose, pathetically interrupted in his greeting, mouth gaping like a dead fish on a market stall.

"But it's still... seven...?"

He took a quick look at his watch to check the time, though he was sure he had heard the Big Ben strike seven times on his way over to her flat. The sound had carried through the whole Westminster area and beyond — St James's, Green Park, even Mayfair perhaps — the chime resounded in the air as he trod the pavement breezily, debonair, dressed in his Harris tweed, his steps jaunty and light. _Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir._ Spring might still be far from coming, but the scent of that single red rose filled him with sweetness. It was extraordinary how just buying her a gift could improve his mood.

"I know it's still early." Her cousin Maggie started, replying to his badly formed question. "But she was ill all day and was feeling rather tired. So I said to her: you should go to bed already, why don't you? And that's what she did. She listens to me, though she's rather stubborn sometimes, I must say. She listened to me and went straight to—"

"She was ill _all_ day?"

Henry had stopped listening after that, so he parroted that bit lamely, still not quite able to believe it. How much exactly had Lizzie drunk the other night? She hadn't said a word about feeling ill the _entire_ day, she hadn’t sent any text warning him about it. He had figured her hangover wouldn't last that much.

"Yes, she got _much_ worse after you left her this morning—" Lizzie’s cousin crossed her arms across her chest. Her voice had a biting and reproachful edge to it, though she couldn't hold his gaze for long. Her eyes kept flitting from his face to the inside of the flat and back. "—I don't know where you were, or what you were doing, but you weren't here to see it."

Henry could think of a million ways to reply to that veiled accusation (some of them far from nice), but he didn't want to waste any more time chit-chatting. He tried to get her out of the way.

"Let me in, I want to talk to her."

"She's _sleeping._ " A look of utter horror crossed her features. "She’s had a terrible day. You can't just go in and _wake_ her."

What on earth did she think he was going to do to Lizzie? He just wanted to sit by her side, stroke her hair, ask if she was feeling any better. He wanted to assure her neither him nor his mother were cross with her. It would be a matter of minutes most likely, half an hour at most. He would kiss her goodnight and leave.

Henry offered her cousin a strained smile, full of fake cordiality. "Listen, _Margaret_ —"

"Who's that?"

Henry looked past the entrance to see a boy stepping into the room. He looked about thirteen, though he had that ageless quality that made it harder to pinpoint his age precisely. He could be older or younger for all Henry could tell. His hair, tangled like a dog's wet fur, was the same tawny as Maggie's.

Lizzie's cousin let go of the doorknob and turned towards the boy, sighing heavily. "Teddy, please, not now..."

Oh, so _that_ was Teddy, Lizzie’s cousin who was often sick? Was he the one who was a bit of a… what was the word… the one who was a bit... _niais?_ No, Henry had to check his French. Was that even a word? Or was he inventing it? Sometimes the words got terribly mixed up in his head.

The boy was looking at him with strange, large eyes. Not looking at him, actually, but rather, at his general direction. Some point above his head, perhaps.

"Is he coming in?"

"No, love, he's not.” Maggie put on a considerably sweeter voice. “Be calm, there's no need to work yourself up. He's here for cousin Lizzie, but she's sleeping now, you see?"

Before Henry had time to say that he _was_ , in fact, coming in, Teddy blurted out in a strangely empty voice and staring at no one in particular, just like cats will look straight into the dark to watch some ghost invisible to the eye.

"Cousin Lizzie cried today."

For a second the air was sucked out of Henry's lungs, as though he had just received a blow. He took a step forward to bounce back from the hit, but was barred by Maggie at the threshold. Guilt was stuck in his throat like a lump of meat he couldn’t quite swallow.

"She cried?"

"Yes." Maggie turned back to him, a scowl marking her face. "It quite upset Teddy."

It upset… _Teddy?_ So that was what she was about? Henry wondered frantically, thoughts crossing his mind at the speed of light. Who cared about _Teddy?_ It was Lizzie the one who had cried!

"It pains him to see her like that. He likes her very much."

Henry let out a harsh, derisive huff. Of course Teddy liked Lizzie! _Everyone_ loved her. Teddy wasn't alone in that. Every person he knew who had ever met Lizzie was fond of her. By god, may his mother never hear him say so, but she _was_ an angel! There were times Henry didn't even know how he ended up with such a being. He didn't deserve her, that much was clear (he had reached that conclusion long ago) but he wanted to keep her all the same.

In a state of wooziness, affected by the unexpectedness of the situation, for a moment Henry just stood there at the threshold, feet glued to the floor, but it was as if Teddy remembered his presence all of a sudden.

"Is he coming in?" He looked at Henry again, a deer caught in headlights. "Is he?"

"No, darling, he's leaving."

Maggie turned, catching Henry looking at her brother in what must not have been the nicest of ways. She instantly put a hand across the jamb, a protective reflex. Henry looked at that hand for two seconds, then slowly, coldly, he raised his eyes to her face. She shivered. Maggie looked embarrassed for a moment, then glanced down and up before clearing her throat.

"Is that for Lizzie?" She nudged her chin at the flower, shifting her feet.

"No, it’s not.” He said dryly. “I just fancy carrying a rose around with me from time to time. It makes for the aesthetic.” She looked utterly dumbstruck at his answer, and Henry nearly lost all his patience. "Of course it is for her! For whom else would that be?"

"Look, I don't know how to tell you this... but she likes them white."

That was it, he was going to lose it! No amount of scoffing could make Henry regain his temper now. Henry didn't care if Teddy didn't want him in the flat, he _was_ coming inside. Before he could take another step, though, Maggie swept the rose from his hand.

"I'll tell Lizzie you popped by."

Henry stared hard at her, so hard that she actually retrieved her hand from the jamb, her arm falling slowly by her side. He was about to say " _Step aside, I'm coming in"_ when his phone started ringing. Henry patted down his pockets to retrieve it, then looked closely at the screen.

It was his uncle calling! His uncle! The one who blamed himself for Henry's smoking, the one who had some heart disease and kept that from him. His uncle—his _only_ uncle. He was probably calling to talk about the patent and the Simnel case, but to hell with all that! Henry couldn't dismiss him, not that time. He had left him hanging for far too long.

Henry stepped back before shooting Maggie one last glance. "Yes, you tell her that."

He pressed the phone to his ear, but then, asking his uncle a minute, he reached inside his pocket to hand over the ibuprofen pack.

“Do me another favour and give her this too." Wry smile pressing his cheeks. "Someone so diligent and attentive as you are, I'm sure you won't forget it.”

He did not wait to see whether Lizzie's cousin was relieved to see him go. Instead, he spun on his heels and took the stairs, not a single farewell word exchanged between the two. Henry resumed his uncle’s call, but the whole ordeal had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He made a mental note to call Lizzie first thing in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was seriously tempted to name this chapter _The Two Margarets._ What do you readers think? 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me ♡  
> Drop your questions, comments or love below x


	9. Sickly Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a fruit gone past its time, she had started rotting from the core. Years of sugar-coated ideals were slowly collapsing inside, layer after layer melting into a pool of stickiness. She could feel the flies buzzing overhead, closing in, mouths eager and salivating for the nectar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, so buckle up. (Let me know if you get to the very end!)
> 
> For reference:
> 
> Élan café: [[x](https://www.instagram.com/elan_cafe/)]

Café hours. Notebooks, paper clips, pencils, pages filled with annotations, margins filled to the brim with hurried handwriting. There was singing in those paragraphs, in the way the point of her pencil scanned those printed lines to catch the cadence of the sentences, in the way her eyes followed her scrawled notes to understand each of the literary decisions taken by that author. Her chai latte remained untouched. Her friends' chatting across the table never entered her ears. She had gone back to the top of the page and had re-read the first paragraph several times already but still her brain couldn't register a single thing of what was written. She could swear it had stopped working. And, as it were, it was otherwise engaged at that moment.  

> **Henry**
> 
> _Are you cross with me?_ _  
> _ _You haven't talked much._
> 
> **Lizzie**
> 
> _I thought you were the one who was cross with me?_

That exchange had happened some ten minutes before, but its conclusion was still hanging somewhere in the air. Now, uselessly trying to immerse herself in her studies, Lizzie looked up from her page as her mobile vibrated again.   

> **Henry  
>    
>  ** _How so?_

Lizzie was certain that, if she were to lock her mobile screen at that moment, she would see the reflection of her face tinged by a forlorn, pitiful expression. She couldn't help it. She could think of a heap of reasons why Henry would be cross with her, namely, her catastrophic blundering of last week's Saturday brunch with his mother. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage at last, then typed.  

> **Lizzie**
> 
> _I haven't seen you in a week.  
>  _ _More than a week, actually.  
>  You’ve disappeared._

Some seconds passed, an invisible clock silently ticked in her mind. She stared intently at the screen, eagerly awaiting his answer. Right beside his name there was a crown and a heart emoji attached to it, a ridiculous fancy of hers. _Why? Because you're the king of my heart, silly!_ She remembered teasing him then, leaning on his shoulder and pecking his cheek. Lizzie knew she was the only one who could call him silly and get away with it.

Eventually, as her mobile screen went into auto-lock, Lizzie let out a quiet sigh of frustration. It was evident that his answer wouldn't be arriving so soon. She crossed her arms and slumped back against her chair in a most ungraceful manner. Some months ago things were far simpler between them. The weight of those early days hung above them like clouds: seemingly light as feather — pleasant, airy, dreamy — but in reality, weighing millions and millions of pounds. Lizzie grabbed her pencil and went back to her notes again. She had almost forgotten about his text, trying hard as she was to make sense of her annotations, when her mobile buzzed again. 

> **Henry**
> 
> _Sorry, I've been busy._

She waited for another text to come, but it seemed that was all of it: one single line.

_Well, I've been busy too_.

Lizzie had spent the whole week split between textbooks, coursework, the writing of her dissertation, not to mention the preparations for February's opening charity fair, an event that took two days to prepare for properly. She had gone to a summer internship interview, she had attended a relative's birthday party, she had helped Maggie cleaning around the flat. Lizzie had even gone to her mother's house that Friday: Little Cathy had broken an arm but would refuse to stay still. As her mother's scoldings remained unheeded, the big sister had to step into the scene: she knew her mother had done her parenting too many times already to have to go through all the same ordeals by then.

She had run all those errands with ultimate diligence and precision. Lizzie had smiled, nodded, and waved. She had shaken hands, she had kissed cheeks, she had said _hellos_ and _goodbyes_ many times over. Then she had smiled some more, she had smiled till her cheeks ached and her muscles strained. She had smiled till her face froze and her mouth curved into a perpetual affable line. It was not that Lizzie didn't _like_ performing all those tasks, but moving graciously between assignments was becoming increasingly difficult as that constant, nagging headache displayed no signs of going away. The whole week there had been an incessant pounding inside her skull that no medicine had been able to stop. The pain was bearable most of the time, but sometimes it grew so intense it made her woozy and nauseous. That scared her for reasons she couldn't even let herself think about yet.

It had all started going wrong after that fateful night out with her sister. Lizzie had spent the following day sick as a dog, twisted by worry and shame. Still, all day she had expected Henry to come and see her. Why hadn't he come? He had sent her some medicine and a rose, sure, he had also sent her a picture of a dog he had seen in the street that day, but none of those things could replace his actual, physical presence. _(What was she doing just now? Her pencil was moving of its own accord along the margins)._ It was her own fault, actually. How could he know she wanted to see him if she didn't say it?

_From all of daddy's flaws, why did you have to pick his pride?_

Lizzie didn't want to deal with her sister's words, or whatever implications they might bring. All she wanted to do was crawl under the covers and sleep till all her problems had gone away. She would gladly sleep for a thousand years if she could, would gladly rest for a whole eternity if only the world would let her be. Alas, there was no way to avoid the relentless pull of daily duties, no way to escape the inexorable vortex of everyday life. On the contrary, there had been another matter to add to the pile of troubles she didn't want to deal with. The remainder of it was there somewhere among her messages, soiling her mobile with foul energy. 

> **07482 046217**
> 
> _Hey there, sweet cheeks  
>  _ _Guess who this is_
> 
> _I've been thinking about you_
> 
> _Have you tired of Tudor's dick yet?  
>  _ _I have a better offer for you_

That text had sent her into a scared, panicky frenzy. Lizzie didn't think she had ever hit the block button so fast in her life. She knew perfectly well who was the author of that message, though even then, she should have asked how he had discovered her number. The idea of speaking to him terrified her, though. What if he sent her a dick pick? He had been blocked from reaching her through call, message and FaceTime—yet, every time her phone received a new text she felt her heart skip and start beating a pace faster. For days at an end she had stared at her phone as if it were a bomb about to explode.

As if mocking her cowardly thoughts, her phone came back to life with a buzz.   

> **Henry**
> 
> _Are we not meeting today?  
>  _ _I want to see you._

_Oh, so_ now _he wants to see me, does he?_ That prideful part of her that Cecily had so rightfully pointed out stirred bitterly inside her. Her own awareness of the fact didn't make it go away. 

> **Lizzie**
> 
> _I don't think so, I'm not home.  
>  _ _I'm doing coursework with some friends._

> **Henry**
> 
> _After you're done, then?_ _  
> _ _I can come and pick you up._

Lizzie let out a sigh, pressed the cool surface of her phone to her throbbing forehead. She didn't want to look like a desperate puppy running to his side, sticky little tongue hanging out, whenever he deemed fit to whistle. But then, it was that pride of hers speaking. But then... still she wanted to see him. Gosh, she wanted to see him so badly. Giving in, she tried to hide her overeagerness by sending him a single-worded reply.  

> **Lizzie  
>    
>  ** _Okay._

Did her eyes deceive her or had he... actually sent her a line consisting of a single exclamation point? It was definitely not something Henry usually did, but weird as that incident was it actually made her smile for once.    

> **Henry**
> 
> _What time can I go?_

Lizzie looked up at her two friends — Kate, who was writing on her laptop, eyes straining against her screen, and Joan, who seemed to be procrastinating just like Lizzie  herself: staring into space, doubtlessly lost in her own thoughts.  

> **Lizzie**
> 
> _You can come right now, actually._
> 
> _9 Market Place_ _  
> _ _W1W 8AQ_

The three little dots were quick to show up that time.      

> **Henry**
> 
> _Great._ _  
> _ _I'll be there in ten x_

Putting down her mobile was like lifting a hundred pounds from her shoulders. Lizzie looked around that coffee shop and felt a nervous twitch going through her body. She longed to be off that place. Ever since she had arrived there everything seemed to irk her, from the staff to to the menu to the voice of her own friends. The decoration was annoyingly saccharine: there was a wall covered in fake peonies and roses, but the worst part perhaps was the pink plush chairs, or maybe the bright neon signs written in cursive, or perhaps all the unnecessary mirrors scattered across the place. Normally Lizzie wouldn't mind it, but everything seem to annoy her those days.

"I'm leaving." Lizzie announced to her friends, somewhat abruptly. Her tongue moved funnily inside her mouth, as if it too was annoyed and didn't want to be talking.

That made Kate lift her dark eyes from the laptop. "What, right now?"

"But we haven't even got to chapter five yet." Joan added. "Professor Caxton said he wanted an extensive analysis on that one."

"I know, I'll look it up on my own. My boyfriend's coming pick me up."

Joan and Kate shared a lingering look. "Alright, then."

Lizzie didn't even want to wonder what that look meant. _Let them think whatever they want_. She gathered her stuff and put it all back inside her tote bag, readying herself to go. She looked over to her untouched tea, but it was too late to drink it now; it had gone too cold. Usually the ten minutes Henry took to get to her flew by quite fast, but they seemed to drag at a snail's pace that time. Lizzie sensed she was checking the time every few seconds.

Breathing in, breathing out.

Suddenly a cold blast of air came in through the doors. Turning on her chair, there she spotted  _him_! Henry in the flesh walked in, dorky smile on, umbrella under his armpit and glasses poised on the tip of his nose. Lizzie usually loved seeing him dressed in one of his suits — they were impeccably tailored, of course, and cut him a fine elegant figure — but Henry looked quite handsome in his choice of outfit that day: dark grey jacket, burgundy polo neck, warm grey trousers. It made Lizzie look down at the embroidered white jumper she had on. Henry didn't really need to dress up for her every time they met, but the fact that he did it was actually endearing. He was a complete dork, truly. Lizzie knew he liked dressing up to every and any occasion.

Henry came to their table and bowed his head slightly, offering them a polite smile.

"Ladies."

Her friends greeted him, but before there could be any awkward attempt at conversation Lizzie was up on her feet. She proceeded to hastily put on her coat and scarf.

"I'll let you know my thoughts on the chapter!" She got hold of Henry's sleeve and began pulling him towards the exit. "I'll do that this very night, I promise!" Her words were coming out hurried, rushed in her urgency. "Or maybe tomorrow! I don't know!" She singsonged as they dashed out the doors, blew them a kiss.  _Bye-bye, loves!_

Lizzie managed to tug on Henry's sleeve for some steps further — just enough distance to get them past the shop windows — then she stopped and wheeled on her heels, finding his face immensely amused. She stepped closer to him.

"Hey."

She was quick. Before he could say his own greeting, she took off his glasses with one hand and tilted his chin with the other, drawing him into a kiss that took him so much by surprise, several seconds had passed before he wrapped his arms around her. Her kiss was quick and passionate, her fingers threading through his hair and pulling him down to her. She felt his umbrella pressed against her back, smiled against his mouth. As she stepped back, she ended the embrace with a small, single peck on his lips.

His reaction lagged. There was a mixture of bewilderment, awe and excitement running across his face — eyebrows, lips, eyes, all moving in different directions. Lizzie placed his glasses back, gingerly touched the tip of his nose, and he replied at last, somewhat short-winded. He cleared his throat.

"Not that I'm complaining, but _.._." Pushing back the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "What was that about, again?"

Lizzie smoothed a hand along the lapel of his jacket. "You look so handsome today." She looked up, offering what she knew was a sheepish smile. "And I missed you."

Henry looked wonderstruck for a second. He stood still at his spot as if hit by lightning, a flash of pure joy crossing his eyes — the blessing of that echoing, thunderous, cosmic blast that reached from the beginning of all things.

"Excuse me for a second.”

He let go of his umbrella. It hit the ground as he pulled her flush against him, one hand cradling her head and the other one sneaking inside her open coat to wrap itself around her waist. He kissed her and kissed her: lips, tongues, humming, a reaching fervour, as though making up for the time they had been apart. _Silly,_ Lizzie thought as their lips brushed together again and again, _he's surprised that I missed him!_ As if she wouldn't after all that time! The thought only made her hold him tighter.

She liked having him lean and solid against her, their bodies pressed together like flowers dried under the weight of an old book, pages and petals squeezed in a lifelong embrace. His hand found its way under her jumper, his palm cool against her skin and sending bolts of shiver along her spine. His fingers had mapped her body already many times over — they knew the geography of lines and the topography of shapes. They knew their way around her curves, they knew the pressure points that made her quake and shiver, open to the blinding, exquisite catastrophe of love.

Lizzie didn't know how long they had been kissing — well, not kissing, snogging — but seeing that they were so close to the crowds swarming Oxford Street, she shouldn't be surprised some passerby would bump into them. A man knocked against her arm, but of course he apologised to Henry.

_Sorry, mate._

The jolt broke their kiss, but he still held her in his arms. His chuckle fanned her cheek, warm and soft and familiar. "Let's go to mine." His lips hovered above her ear, confidential like a high state secret. "I'll make it up to you."

They were clinging to each other like two vines intertwined. As his words travelled down her body, making their way from her ear to the the tip of her toes, a warmth pooled between her legs almost painfully. Last time they had met after spending so long apart, they hadn't even made it to the bedroom (Henry hadn't even had time to take off his glasses, the poor man).

Still, when Henry moved to take her mouth again, she turned her head and his lips landed on her cheek. Lizzie disengaged from his arms and stepped back to shoot him a look.

"Only if you tell me what kept you so long."

It was like throwing water over the crackling flames of a fire. Henry looked almost contrite as he glanced down. "Several things have happened." He bent down to retrieve his umbrella from the ground, reached for her bag and slung it on his shoulder as he stood up again. "None of them matter now."

_Things_. Why was Henry always so closemouthed about his work?

He tugged on her hand, prompting her to walk with him. Still, Lizzie tried again.

"Things... such as?"

"Well, if you must know, there's been a… an allegation against the patent." Henry waved a dismissive hand in the air as if he was talking of something ridiculously trivial, though he clearly looked bothered by it. "It's nothing to despair over, though. Things have been taken care of." He kept talking to her, but was resolutely looking ahead as they walked. By the set of his jaw, how tight it was working, she could see there was some annoyance he was trying to hide. "We'll have a mediation session next week and then—" He cut himself short and sighed, shaking his head. "It's all too complicated. You wouldn't understand."

The words sank in, they tumbled down like a pile of rocks. She blinked, then found herself repeating them in a slow, flat drawl. "I… wouldn't understand..."

Henry casually turned to her, though to his credit, he immediately saw he had committed a blunder. His eyes grew large and he tripped over his words.

"No, not like that—I mean, I mean I'd bore you to death! I would bore you to death if I went into specifics. I didn't—"

Lizzie interrupted him by shaking her head, turned to look at the street rather than keep looking at him. Whatever he could say now would only make things worse. She was frowning, but Henry pulled her closer by lacing his arm with hers.

"Come, now, why are we even talking about the patent?" He tried again in a cautious voice. "I can tell you that this patent has done nothing but consume my mind for an entire fortnight already and quite frankly—" He let out a sigh that was equal parts tiredness and exasperation. "—Quite frankly, it's been driving me mad!"

Lizzie almost softened by hearing him confiding his grievances to her — she reached across to land her other hand on his arm, started rubbing it up and down as a reassuring gesture of her own — but then, he added:

"That's why I wanted to see you. I need to take my mind off things for a while."

The hand rubbing his arm went lax. So… _that_ was what she was to him? A _distraction_? Some sort of blowing off steam by way of a kiss and a shag when his cigarettes just weren't enough?

Lizzie didn't say anything, but Henry must have sensed she was upset. He gathered her closer still and was quick to start chatting — _"Hey, do you want to know what happened to Ed last week? Just the most hilarious thing."_ — talking about everything and nothing at all as they made their way over to Oxford Street, throwing some snide remarks around a tad too loudly, telling her some stories, making some impersonations of his own.

He knew how to make her laugh, and the worst part of it all was: _it was working_. Henry could be quite charming when he wanted to, especially to her. Lizzie loved to see how his eyes came alive, how they glowed whenever he was excited to tell her a joke — bad jokes they were, the dad type of jokes. Yet they were so bad she couldn't help but laughing, like that time they had gone to the Hampstead bathing ponds and he put on a summer shirt so tacky, her first impulse was to blurt out loud: _I love you._

"It's just the most ridiculous fancy, really.” Henry was saying, and Lizzie realised her mind had just made a small journey of its own. "They still insist on the boat party. Just imagine it now! Cruising along the Thames in the dead of winter! Do you think we'll get the chance to step on the prow, pull a Jack and Rose as Tower Bridge goes by? Fucking no, we'll bloody freeze out there." He laughed, then winked at her. "Anyways, darling, just put on some nice dress and don't forget your furs, apparently."

"What—where—when?"

Oh, she should have been paying more attention! Now she was clawing hands at those flimsy scraps of information she had been able to register. Her mind was suddenly wheeling. Oxford Street opened up to her like the floodings of a gushing wound: car horns, people's laughter, the music coming from the shops — the whole world came blasting its maddening cacophony at her ears all at once. Her headache came back to life with a vengeance: throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.

"Why, love! The boat party, of course." Henry turned an eye on her that was full of mirth, good-humoured as he was. "I see no other such excellent occasion to freeze, do you?"

A party… not just any party, but a _smart dress_ type of party. That meant…. she would have to meet... all those people again. _All_ of them.

Lizzie stopped in her tracks, making Henry come to a halt as well.

"I'm not going." Her voice sounded hollow, as if her mind had gone into autopilot.

From behind his glasses, his eyes stared at her in mild perplexity. "Why not?"

"Because..." Lizzie blinked repeatedly, looked down at her feet and up again. She would be wringing her hands if he didn't have one of them caught against his arm. Running out of breath in her panic, she forced the words out. "Because.I.don't.want.to."

His questioning stare turned into a frown. "You know you'll have to be more specific than that, don't you?"

_'Will have to'?_ She wrenched her hand free. "Do I have to justify myself to you now?"

"Given that I've already explained how extremely important it is for you to go with me, then yes. Yes, you do."

Lizzie huffed with indignation and turned, heading the way they had just come from. She zigzagged through the crowd, walking fast. _Lizzie!_ She heard him calling after her, probably dodging all the pedestrians in his way as well. Lizzie remembered he had her bag, but the thought wasn't enough to make her go back. When she realised, she was crossing the road, going through the lanes of traffic unheeding of cars, vans, motorcycles, double-deckers, any and all vehicles going about the city.

"Lizzie!" Henry caught up to her on the other side of the road and grabbed her wrist. He looked white as a sheet, out-of-breath. "What are you doing? Do you want to get hit by a car?"

"I don't care." She replied flatly, then made a sign for a cab to stop. Henry looked so flabbergasted still, he didn't even protest against the ride as he usually did. On the contrary, he actually helped her get inside the car before he made his way in. When Lizzie gave the driver _her_ address, his shoulders visibly hunched.

She could tell he was itching to shower her with questions, but he was far too concerned about his own privacy to attempt that conversation in the presence of a driver. Henry was silent, and in silence they remained for the short span of time the cab took to get to her address.

Climbing out of the black car, Henry paid for the ride as she took back her bag and ravaged it in search of her keys. She felt him close at her heels as they entered the block, his question coming soft but tensed at last.

"Lizzie, can you tell me why you're in such a temper?"

At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to him. "Promise me you won't talk about that party anymore?"

Henry ran a hand along his forehead, combed his hair back with his fingers. "Fine." Lizzie sighed in relief, but he quickly went back on his word. "I just want to know _why_ you don't want to go. It's not unfair of me to know, it's not unreasonable of me to ask."

Every step she climbed sent a jolt of pain into her skull. Sheshould be the one whinging. One, two, three, twelve steps yet to go. With a great heave of breath, she spoke again. "I said I don't want to go."

"And I heard that. Now, why?"

"Because—" Landing on her floor, she fiddled with her keys. "—because I don't like those people."

" _Those_ people?"

" _Those_ people." She repeated, more assertively that time. "You know, your… associates, partners, I don't know. Whatever they are."

Baffled, Henry scoffed. "Lizzie, do you think _I_ like them? Do you think I spend my entire time genuinely smiling at them? Do you think _I_ like having to do small talk, shaking their hands and licking their boots, when all I really want to do is turn around and never look at their faces again?" His voice cracked, he looked more and more exasperated. "Do you think _I_ like—"

For god's sake, how long he could rant!

"It's not that!" Lizzie unlocked her door and pushed her way inside. She wanted to cover her ears and make that topic go away, press a restart button to that conversation. _Please stop talking about it, please stop talking about, please stop talking about it._

"Then what is it?"

"It's not that _I don't like them_." She threw her bag on the sofa, whirling around to face him again. "It's that I hate them!"

She shouldn't have said it, but it was too late to take it back now. Henry was stunned for two seconds, then was about to retort again when the words flew out of her mouth in a last desperate attempt. "One of them called me your whore!"

His whole body froze in place. Lizzie realised her chest was heaving, heart pounding soundly in her ears. Henry spent several seconds with his brows deeply knitted together in his disbelief, face made of stone.

"Who?" He uttered at last.

Her breath came out ragged. "John de la Pole."

Henry went even quieter, and that frightened her. _No, no, no_. That wasn't the way things were supposed to go. She should have steeled herself for his reaction first before plunging into those murky, troubled waters. Instead, she had been pushed into a whirlpool against her will and now she was sputtering everything out like the vomited pieces of a shipwreck after the storm.

"It's not only that." She found herself speaking, even though she felt small, so infinitesimally small. "I got a text from an unknown number some days ago. And... I think that was him."

Something hard and unflinching flashed in his eyes, just for a second, before it vanished behind the descent of his eyelids. He extended a mechanical hand towards her. "Let me see it."

Watching him read that disgraceful message must have been the most embarrassing thing she had done in her life. Head bent over the screen, Henry still retained the same expression: steely, guarded, unpredictable. He read a line aloud.

" _A_ _better offer?_ "

Lizzie had her arms wrapped arout her middle. Her legs felt weak, wobbly as if they could falter at any moment. "He thinks we have some sort of deal. He thinks that I..." It was difficult even to say it. "That I let you keep me as a pet for money." She felt the urge to start crying, but she looked at her shoes instead. "Or, I don't know, maybe he just says that to vex me. It sure brought him some joy to see me so embarrassed."

She remembered de la Pole's cold flint eyes on her, the way they searched her face for any cracks and crevices he could taunt and pry open. She remembered the despairing, numbing sensation, that fear of being shattered, having her pieces eaten one by one and spitted out. Lizzie closed her eyes, almost drowning into that dark sea of memory, but the sound of Henry's voice made them pop open again.

"Have you blocked him?"

At her ' _of course'_ reply, he nodded, handing back her phone. Henry looked down, stared at the floor for what felt like a long stretch of time. What was he thinking? Of that time Cecily almost told him about the whole thing, or perhaps of that night at the rooftop bar? He was unreadable. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he raised his eyes to her.

"Why are you only telling me this now?"

_I didn't know how to tell you_ was her honest answer, though at that moment Lizzie couldn't even think of an excuse to give him. She was sure her legs would collapse from under her at any second by now. She was paralysed under his eagle-like eyes, under that pointed scrutiny that carved its way into her soul.

It was an irony of almost greek proportions that the sharpest feature about him was flawed. As if by design of some ancient divinity, his vision was crippled, like Achilles and his heel: weakest at his strongest. She wondered what his eyes could do without those glasses that filtered his gaze. He would turn anyone into stone with one single glance, she was sure of that, he would reduce them to cinders with a stare.

Henry stepped closer to her. "None of this would be happening if I knew." His face was grim, sculpted into righteous indignation. "I could have stopped him by now."

"So now it's my fault?" From all things, she wasn't expecting to feel that flare of anger. "It's my fault because I didn't tell you?"

"Lizzie, for god's sake! I'm not saying it's your fault!" His eyes beseeched hers, his voice went two tones softer. "It would never be your fault."

Her eyes started welling up, but she didn't want him to see her weeping like a child. _Suck up you tears_ , she told herself. _Drink them all in_. He took another step towards her, tentatively placing his foot down as if approaching a wounded animal.

"But I need you to tell me." Another cautious step. “These are people I'm doing business with."

That was just what she had been afraid of hearing all along.

"Everything is about your work!" She stormed away when he was just at an arm’s length from her, half-fled to the window. Face turned away from his, she pressed the fabric of her jumper's sleeve to the corner of her eyes. "Everything." She repeated, softer that time. "Everything."

_Even me. Even us_.

"Lizzie, it’s not about my work!" His words had a tinge of desperation to them. "It's about keeping you _safe_." There was a pause in which nothing could be heard, as if the whole world had gone into white noise. "Lizzie…" He tried again. "Come, I'm trying to be sensible here."

" _Sensible_?" That made her turn. " _Sensible_ is the word you choose?"

Henry clearly didn't know what to say to that. He started a few times, but held himself back at every attempt.

"Don't… Please, don't say anything." Lizzie shook her head. She was tired, her headache wouldn't leave her, and above all things, it hurt her to see him looking so lost. He, who was always so sure of himself. "I don't want us to keep fighting anymore."

"Lizzie, this is not a fight!" Bewilderment set on his face, an exasperation springing from what seemed to be her inability to see what was so clear to him. "This is an argumentative discussion. It's what couples do."

Red haze, that flash of anger flaring up. "This _is_ a fight!"

"An argumentative—" He was incisive. "—discussion!"

A loud crash made them both jump and turn their heads. In front of her room's door, there her cousin Maggie stood with a wince written all over her face. She had just dropped her tea tray, a whole packet of chocolate digestives was scattered across the floor.

"Sorry, I didn't want to… I didn't want to interrupt you! But…. um, I left the oven on, you see. And I thought I should… I should try to..."

Seeing her cousin trying to sneak around unnoticed in her own home, awkwardly excusing herself, brought a new level of guilt to Lizzie's conscience. No one should be suffering from her fight with Henry. No one, that is, besides herself.

"I'm so sorry, Maggie! Of course, of course you should go." She went over to her cousin and helped her picking up the tray and her ruined biscuits. "Please, please go on. And—and forgive us for the noise. Please."

Her cousin passed by them still looking very much abashed, but Henry didn't display an ounce of sympathy towards her. Scowling as he was, he didn't address her cousin or even offered his apologies. It was as if he was pointedly refusing to acknowledge her presence. Lizzie was astonished. Was there _anyone_ in her family that he liked _at all_? Of course, he wouldn't want anyone to witness their _argumentative discussion,_ wouldn't want anyone to think of them as less than perfect together.

Fixing his glasses, he started buttoning up his jacket. "Well, I think it's time for me to take my leave."

That took her so much by surprise, the words choked up in her throat. Henry looked at her as if waiting for her to say something. One, two, three heartbeats passed. Seeing that something wasn't coming, he looked down and nodded, making his way towards the door. He was about to cross the threshold when Lizzie called after him.

"Henry!" He looked back in a second. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she only managed to squeeze out one. "Text me when you get home, okay?"

Henry sighed — if from weariness or relief, Lizzie couldn't tell — then he nodded again, closed the door shut behind him.

Lizzie spent several seconds looking at the door, rooted at her spot, a numb feeling taking over her. Then her gaze fell on her bag lying on the sofa. The handle of his umbrella was peeking from the inside. She looked out the window: it could start raining at any minute. She grabbed the item and ran downstairs as quickly as her legs allowed her. It sufficed a light drizzle to fall on him and Henry would be coughing and sneezing the next day. Lizzie couldn't let him go without some sort of protection.

"Henry!" She called after him from the distance, running across the pavement. "Henry, you forgot your brolly!"

He was just turning the corner when her hurried steps caught up to him. Hearing her voice, he spun around and pulled her to him in the flash of a second, wrapped her tight in his embrace. Her heart was beating so fast, but all she could think of was the smoothness of his cool cheek against her own. His arms tightened around her, his breath came softly to her ears. The familiar smell of his French cologne was like an anchor to her, grounding her, steadying her, slowing her heartbeat. There was a desperation of his own in the way he clung to her, pressing her into his skin. A desperation of his own in the way he offered his chest for her to lean on, as if saying: _I love you, c_ _ome home with me_ — and at that moment, and at that moment only, she _would_ go. She would follow him to the end of the world if he asked her to.

But that wasn't Henry. No, he would never be one to beg for affection. He pulled back and brushed a hair strand off her face. Cupping her cheek, he ran his thumb across her skin, then pressed his lips to her forehead. He spent a small eternity in that position alone, breathing her in. A kiss on the mouth would have hurt her less. Eventually, as all things come to an end, he stepped back. Looking down, he pried his umbrella from her stiff, frozen hands.

"I'll text you." He nudged his chin towards the way she had just come. "Now go. I want to see you inside before I leave."

Feeling disoriented, her mind woozy as if she had just survived a train wreck, Lizzie started her way back, every few steps peeping over her shoulder to look back at him. She was opening the door to her block when she heard him one last time.

_Be careful._

There are few instances in life when one cannot help but be their own enemy. That thought didn't give her any comfort as Lizzie made herself a cup of tea, the sizzling of the boiling kettle coming to her ears like accusatory hisses. She made her way to her room by dragging, slow steps. She plopped down in her chair and when she realised, she had laid down her head on the flat surface of her desk. Limbless, lifeless doll. She pressed her tea mug to her forehead, but she didn't know whether the heat would make her headache better or worse. Why should it matter, after all? She had already ruined a perfectly fine day.

Her mobile buzzed with a new text and she sat upright immediately, scrambled her way to it with fumbling hands. 

> **Henry**
> 
> _I'm home.  
>  _ _Here goes the text as I promised._

The ellipsis on her screen could only mean he had more to say. Her eyes followed each line avidly as his messages came one by one.

> _I'm sorry I made you upset._ _  
> _ _You know I'm not the best with words.  
>  __Or one to talk about feelings._

She sucked in her breath. What on earth was he doing?  

> _But I want you to know that you don't need to feel scared and alone.  
>  _ _I'm here. It's my job to protect you._

His _job..._

> __Don't shut me out. Let me take care of you._  
>  _

A sob escaped her, deep and sharp. A second one followed, then all flood gates opened at once. She had to let down her tears that time, she had to let them all run free or else they would get stuck in her throat, else they would choke her to death. Folded atop her bed there were two of Henry's shirts whose buttons she had sewn back. Lizzie brought them to her face and wept into their cool, cottony smoothness. Enveloped by his scent, but still she was floundering. His shirt would be soaked wet by the time she was finished. _Unreasonable, unreasonable, unreasonable_ , chanted the accusing voice in her head. She could have gone with him, could have gone to the safe harbour of his arms to speak all night in lips, fingertips, touches. But no, she had decided to stay and wallow in her room instead.

Lizzie stood up suddenly, so suddenly a rush of blood went to her head. She gripped her chair and straightened up, wiped her cheeks clean. She took a look around her room and it irked her so, she immediately started tidying up, even though there was not a thing out of place. Despite what people thought, Lizzie had her own way of organising things, especially when distraught. Keeping her hands busy was paramount.

In her room she kept a collection of antique perfume bottles that she had bought from various vintage markets around the city: from Bermondsey Square to Alexandra Palace, from Portobello Road to Camden Town. Inside their coloured, sinuous glasses, she kept flowers fresh and dried alike, stalks that she bought from the flower market in Columbia Road: delicate, pristine jasmine, light pink hydrangeas, small ranunculus buds, white rose blossoms. She would go to that market every Sunday she could, heading to the east part of town breezily, feeling like Mrs Dalloway in her walk.

She dropped all flowers in the bin, emptied her flasks one by one. She proceeded to throw away everything that irked her eye: postcards, fairy lights, polaroids. It would shock someone to see her discarding so easily things that had meant so much to her. _Sweet Dear Elizabeth,_ she had been all her life. _Sweet little flower: always smiled, never made a sound_. The truth was laid bare before her in all of its ugly light: like a fruit gone past its time, she had started rotting from the core. Years of sugar-coated ideals were slowly collapsing inside her, layer after layer melting into a pool of stickiness. She could feel the flies buzzing overhead, closing in, mouths eager and salivating for the nectar. _Easy prey_.

With one sweep of her hand she cleaned off her desk, dropped all her colourful stationery into the bin. Emptying her drawers, her hands got hold of a tiny notebook in which she kept all the poetry she had never shown to anyone. Lizzie turned one cold, clinical eye on all those lines her heart had poured out across the years. She had never read worst poetry in her life. She torn one page in half — down, it went to the bin. Another one she torn, and down to the bin it went again. Another one she tossed out, and another one, and another one. She turned a page and saw one of the poems she had written to Henry. Her fingers stopped, they retreated. _No_. It would be something akin to criminal to tear it apart. Lizzie closed her notebook. She would have to deal with that later, but not now, not then. Perhaps not ever.

There was one last drawer for her to open, one in which she had kept the one issue she had not been able to deal with the whole week. Methodically, slowly, her fingers made wood slide against wood. There was no denying of it anymore, no more running around it, no more mindless refusal. Her fingers brought it into the harsh light of the room:

_LloydsPharmacy Pregnancy Test._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> I think I found a definition that perfectly captures Elizabeth of York in this AU: [[x](https://pin.it/sdzx4tvpaq4e3g)]. What do you readers think?
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> (A shout-out to @history-be-written who told me she likes when I link references. So, muah! I thought of you when writing this one xx)


	10. The Contretemps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there was one thing in life Henry hated more than anything, it had to be this: packing up his things at the speed of light, rushing off from place to place like a criminal, running away as if he was a thief hunted by a pack of dogs, frothing mouths and loud barking at his heels — a shadow chased by light, fleeing from dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but here's our longest chapter yet.  
> Take your time and read at your leisure.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?"

There was a white bland sterility about that room. All government offices were built this way, Henry supposed: uncomfortable chairs made for endless waiting, information posters scantily hung along the walls, idle magazines and small pamphlets laid on desks and coffee tables for better keeping a citizen entertained — or should one say, confused. Blissful ignorance.  _Keep Calm and Carry On_  — half-truths and half-hidden lies written under the stamp of the royal coat of arms: lion and unicorn flanking a quartered shield, ' _Dieu et mon Droit'_ lying at their feet _._

God and my Right.      

> _Protecting your intellectual property makes it easier to take legal action against anyone who steals or copies it. There are several ways in which we can help you resolve your dispute. The Intellectual Property Office (IPO) offers a mediation service to parties involved in an IP-related dispute covering: trade marks, copyright, designs and patents. If you wish to resolve your dispute via the IPO's mediation service, please contact the IPO team at_ _[mediation@ipo.gov.uk](mailto:mediation@ipo.gov.uk)._
> 
> _Intellectual Property Office_  
>  _1st Floor  
>  _ _4 Abbey Orchard Street  
>  London_

As optimistic as that short paragraph might sound, Henry had an inkling things wouldn't go as smoothly as their cheerful pamphlets had promised. He had come to the IPO headquarters two hours in advance and armed with his sharpest device, some of his very best team. He had contacted the two Johns — de Vere and Morton — and both had come up with strategies on how to best tackle that confrontation. Ever since they had found out that ' _Lambert Simnel'_ was, in fact, the name of an organisation, Henry had been eagerly awaiting that meeting. So far, the only person belonging to the opposing party they had been able to contact was their legal representative, a man with a northern accent and a pretentious-sounding voice named Francis Lovell.  

Jasper Tudor shifted uncomfortably in the seat beside Henry's. They were the only two people in the waiting room ever since Edward Woodville and Reginald Bray had left for the information centre. Dressed in a silver grey suit, beard nicely groomed, his uncle had taken an aloof, far-away gaze that spoke volumes about some sort of guilty conscience. Henry could read those signs easily; he had taken the same stance for the same reason countless times before. As Henry's question rang unanswered in the air, dissipating like a cloud of smoke, his uncle dragged his eyes slowly towards his way.

"I'm sorry, what was your question?"

Henry bit the inside of one cheek, smoothed the fabric of his slim, fitted suit trouser — dark grey, three-piece suit, bespoke tailoring straight from Savile Row, Anderson & Sheppard.

"I asked: is there anything you want to tell me?"

The days had piled up on top of each other, they threatened to turn into several weeks, and still his uncle had not told him the truth about his health. Henry had prodded the matter twice by then, but the topic was so delicate and grave, Henry had been equally hesitant to bring it up over the phone. Just like his uncle himself, it was almost easier for him to never talk about the matter. It was popular knowledge, a saying older than feudalism: avoiding the devil's name was a safe way to stay out of his way. Yet, as much as Henry would like to, closing his eyes and his ears to each and every problem wouldn't make them go away. _Before you can kill the monster,_ they say, _you have to say its name._

Henry watched with unconcealed attention as his uncle averted his gaze, awkwardly. "Nothing that comes to mind, no."

His uncle crossed his legs and leaned further back in his seat, hand stroking his beard, an action that could only be read as a blatant effort to look casual. It didn't take long for Henry to realise he had mindlessly followed that motion and was now mirroring his uncle's position in his own seat. Chafed, starting to lose patience with himself, he uncrossed his leg to place ankle over knee, if only to look slightly different. Some habits died hard, like that childlike tendency of his to search his uncle's face in hopes to find some slight feature that might resemble his own. Henry shifted, adjusted his cufflinks with calculated ease.

"I'm sure that if you search your mind carefully you'll find something."

Seemingly embarrassed, his uncle fixed his necktie and glanced at his direction again. "Well, let me see…" He smoothed a thumb along the length of his left eyebrow, one of his all-time familiar gestures. "Some small news… well, not news as it hasn't happened yet... but Catherine and I are planning to move in together."

Henry raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly as a way of acknowledgment. He ran a finger along the bridge of his nose — just as if he had his glasses on, as if to push them back in — and that automatic reflex chafed him further. Wearing his contacts now, Henry thought for the first time that he should buy a new pair of glasses, one that wouldn't keep sliding off his face. He had no idea why he was so attached to material things, from simple and trivial to rare and costly ones.

"That is… certainly some news."

His uncle Jasper, then in his 50s, could only be described as what people commonly called a _silver fox:_ confident, bright-eyed, pleasant, a tad too bold but always charming, he did incredibly well with the ladies. Yet, despite all those attractive qualities, he had remained a bachelor all his life. He had dedicated a great proportion of it to his work instead. For a long period of years, he had tried to salvage his half-brother's company from complete ruination, though ultimately all his efforts had not been enough. Henry had shared a name with that deceased half-uncle, a man he had only ever met briefly. Jasper had never been able to completely forgive himself for what he deemed to be his personal failure: Uncle Henry had died in less than ideal financial circumstances, and in an even worse mental state.

"Let me see what else…" His uncle kept going in that awkward tone of his. "Let me see… Well, I might do some refurbishment in the house by the end of the year. Change some of the windows, get the electrical redone and rewrire the whole place. I might... do some repainting too. You know the house is old enough."

Though vague, his tone was final, and Jasper looked sufficiently satisfied with himself by the end of his speech as he folded his hands over his lap.

Henry blinked, felt his eyebrows twitching. "Is that all?"

"Yes, yes. Nothing else comes to mind." His uncle must have noticed Henry's more aggressive tone, but he chose to ignore it. "And... what about you? How are things going on in your life?" Tapping his fingers against the back of one hand. "How is… Elizabeth?"

Henry squinted his eyes at him, at that poorly disguised attempt to change the conversation. "She's quite well, thank you."

If Henry were to be completely honest, the truth was that Lizzie had been acting rather weird. The de la Pole business explained her behaviour well enough, though it couldn't explain all of it. There was something… just something… _Fucking_ _hell_ , only thinking about that bastard was enough to make Henry clench his jaw so hard it hurt. There was something fishy about that whole situation. No man when decided to go after a woman — blinded by lust or love or whatever that might be — spent weeks before making his first move. The golden rule, every man knew that, was to call or send a text after three days, like some shitty resurrected Jesus no one had asked for. If de la Pole had managed to get his hands on Lizzie's number, there had been nothing stopping him from contacting her those past few weeks.

Unless… unless the situation wasn't so simple. There was no way de la Pole could have known Lizzie would take so long to tell him, was there? No, it was only after waiting long enough that he had reached out to her. That could mean several things, but one suspicion in particular wouldn't leave Henry's mind: de la Pole _wanted Lizzie to tell him_ , he wanted to get a reaction out of him. To what end, Henry couldn't tell yet. The real problem in the meantime was Lizzie herself, caught in between the crossfire. Twice already had de la Pole struck in that unexpected game of chess, so Henry had to tread with double care now.

He had been able to see Lizzie only once — and briefly — those past few days, though he had at least managed to give her a new sim card to change her mobile number. Henry wasn't sure if there was any real way one could track a mobile device by number alone, but in circumstances such as those, one could never be too careful. _No more sharing your location on social media_ , he had warned her, and Lizzie had nodded along, though she had looked so morose, so unconcerned, it was as if the whole issue didn't involve her at all, as if it wasn't _her own safety_ he was trying to ensure.

When Henry finally gathered the courage to ask her what was wrong _(had de la Pole… again?)_ , Lizzie had only raised her eyes to tell him — in an uncharacteristically serious voice — that they _needed to talk_ , but she wouldn't have time to tell him whatever it was during that brief meeting at the entrance hall of her block. Henry had swallowed down that statement uneasily. No matter what relationship experts might say, ' _we need to talk'_ was never a good sign.

"I'm glad to hear it." His uncle replied airily, apparently not paying attention to Henry's facial expression. In his deflection, he gave Henry an affable smile, full of paternal affection. "She's a pretty bird, isn't she?" _Too pretty, perhaps_. "She does good to you, truly. I haven't seen you like this for a long time. I'm happy that you're—"

Increasingly irritated, almost grinding his teeth at this point, Henry stood up. "Do you want to go for a smoke?"

His uncle sped his eyes around the room. "Shouldn't we wait here?"

"It shouldn't take more than five minutes." Henry gestured at the courtyard visible through the window. "They'll know where to find us."

"Well..."

Henry thrust his fists inside his pockets, planted his feet squarely across his uncle. "Let's go for a fag, what do you say?"

His uncle hesitated, visibly searching for words. "I... haven't got a pack on me. I'm afraid I'll pass."

"You can bum one of my cigs, though." Henry shifted his stance, shot him a look verging on defiance. "I've got your favourite here, B&H Gold. What do you say now?"

His uncle sighed, eyes perusing the ceiling. "Henry..."

"I've got a lighter too, in case you say you forgot yours—"

" _Henry_."

A definite, concrete call. Voice sharp like in his teenage years.

"What? What's your next excuse?"

His uncle sighed again, and in that long, long sigh, he sounded older than his years. A short pause followed, a span of time in which all the clocks ticking in the room could be heard, all together and all at once.

"You know."

"Yes." replied Henry stiffly, almost against his will. Although he knew he was in the right, there was a guilty feeling of his own climbing up his throat.

Jasper blinked only once. "Your mother."

"Of course my mother told me!" Henry lashed out, anger battling his guilt. "She keeps _nothing_ from me."

 _And it seems she's the only one,_ he thought bitterly, moaning to himself. Henry couldn't accept the fact that even his favourite people were keeping secrets from him. That sharp truth stung, it felt like some sort of betrayal, like a bitter pill he was forced to swallow.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"I don't know." His uncle had at least the grace to avow. "I'm sorry I couldn't bring myself to tell you." His eyes on him were honest and steady, a calm expanse of the ocean. "I didn't think it would hurt you that much. That's precisely what I was trying to avoid."

"Hurt?" Henry scoffed, crossing his arms and pacing around the room. "What a ridiculous idea! Truly, that's… that's idiocy." He gave up, resumed his seat with a huff. "Hurt! What a concept! I'm not  _hurt,_ I'm… angry and... disappointed."

"Well," How was it even possible his uncle was smiling? "Isn't that worse?"

"Uh. Lads."

Henry turned to the side, craned his neck around to see who had had the nerve to interrupt their conversation. Edward Woodville stood at the door, his mop of dark blond hair slightly dishevelled, as if he had just had a quick run to their location. Henry raised his eyebrows at him, shot him an annoyed look.

"Yes?"

Ed glanced from Henry to Jasper and to Henry again. "There's been a problem."

The three of them dashed to the information centre down the hall. They found Bray arguing with an office clerk. In the small commotion that had gathered near them, Henry couldn't decide which one looked more confused than the other — to be fair, Bray was clearly the most exasperated of the two. Henry excused himself and sneaked his way to them.

"Hello, I'm Henry Tudor. Can anyone tell me what's going on?"

Bray, looking like one of those angry long-legged birds with his beaked face, shot the clerk a dark look as if telling him: _Go ahead, you tell my client_. The clerk swallowed and went on, turning to the side to address Henry directly.

"Mr Tudor, I'm sorry, but it seems there's been a mistake regarding your appointment. Your legal adviser here, Mr Bray—" It was the clerk's turn to shoot a sideways glance at Reginald. All of that would be endlessly amusing to Henry if not for the open direness of the situation. "—Mr Bray tells me that a mediation session concerning your patent was scheduled to take place here at our office at two, but none of your names figure in my list."

"It is impossible." Henry frowned, hardly believing his own ears. "We've contacted the IPO team. You were the ones to suggest a mediation session. We chose from the very list the IPO gave us to make our appointment."

 _Mediation services held at the IPO have a 70% rate of success_ , they had claimed. It was not only the high success rate that had caught Henry's attention, but the fact that they could resolve that dispute without the need to go to court — which was, after all, little more than dirty washing aired in public — was crucial to Henry's decision. Whatever the outcome, the session would remain private, preserving any possible injury to the business reputation.

"Mr Tudor, I know this is all very unpleasant." The clerk started again. "But we've checked our system as requested. It seems your session is scheduled to happen at our office in Newport today at five. I was informed it was the very last available slot."

His frown deepened. "Yes, we were told the very same. Yet a week ago the IPO contacted us to change our appointment to London. You said the change was done keeping our own convenience in mind."

The clerk looked taken aback then, and Henry realised their problem was definitely graver than he had imagined.

"Could you tell me by which way our team contacted you, sir? I'll have to make some enquiries."

Henry gestured to Bray, which promptly produced the invoice they had received by mail, stamped with the royal arms and branded with every other little official government signature. The clerk, by now squinting behind his small spectacles, brought the invoice close to his eyes and excused himself before stepping away with the paper.

"I must check the source, I'm afraid. Gentlemen, if you could give me a second."

Henry ran a hand along his face, took a long, deep breath. Bray, Woodville, his own uncle — they were all looking at him with a strange sort of expression, made even stranger because it was somehow the same expression shared among the three faces. No man dared to say a word. They were all standing stiffly, motionless. Thankfully, the clerk came back to the room before Henry had completely ruined the sole of his shoe by tapping on the floor. 

"Unfortunately it is as I suspected, Mr Tudor. I'm sorry to inform you that you have been misled by a fake organisation passing off as the IPO."

"That can't be."

That must have been the most absurd piece of information he had ever received in his life!

"We called the office to confirm the possibility of a reschedule." Bray supplied. "They told us all preparations were in order."

"That's… quite vague, sir. They could be referring to anything about the process."

Stunned as he was, Henry couldn't even utter back a word. _Misled, led astray, scammed, deceived, hoodwinked, bamboozled!_ He could have come to the IPO wearing a clown costume for all the easiness with which he had been played. Truthfully, a wig and a fake nose and some white paint stood next to nothing compared to his situation now.

"I see that they asked you to pay a rescheduling fee. Did you?"

"Yes." Henry found himself replying again, albeit begrudgingly. "A sum of £150 on top of the initial £450 for the session."

"Then it is our protocol to ask you to report this invoice as an action fraud to the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau. They're located at the City of London Police, but for convenience, they also have an online reporting tool that allows you—"

"Yet can you tell me _how_ and _why_ would they target specifically my patent dispute?" His voice rose sharply. Indignation had replaced his dread by then. _Red tape, red tape, red tape!_ That was all the solution they were offering him. "This looks insidiously specific. They knew when the session would take place. Date, hour and location."

The clerk looked almost embarrassed. "I cannot, sir. The IPO holds your information as confidential, as well as those of all other applicants." He hesitated, but seeing that Henry wasn't satisfied with his answer, he went on. "The only other people informed of such details were the opposing party, as I'm sure you are aware, sir."

_The opposing party._

"Again, we are sorry to inform you, sir."

His head felt so heavy, Henry started to see patterns moving on the carpet, lines that simply weren't there in the first place. One hand working on his tie, the other one inside his pocket but closed into a fist, he felt a weight landing on his shoulder.

"Harri."

Henry glanced up from the floor, from that silence that had built around him. His uncle was looking at him — gravely, expectantly — yet his expression was also… encouraging, comforting, oddly reassuring. _He's not my father_ , a part of him wanted to revolt against that childish attachment to his uncle.  _Why do I crave his approval so much?_  And yet... what did it matter whether Jasper was his father or not? _Harri_ , it played again on his head _._  Henry lifted up his chin, looked each member of his team in the eye.

"We are _not_ giving up."

They shared a grave, resolute nod.

"Bray, see if you can contact any of your colleagues in South Wales and get one to stand in for us in Newport. They can't say we didn't turn up to the appointment if we sent a legal representative at least."

Bray stepped to the side, hand on his phone. "On it."

"You!" Henry beaconed the clerk close again, to the man's dismay. "My team and I won't make it to Newport in time. I want you to start the proceedings to extend the session."

The clerk glanced from one man to the other. "Sir, there are fees for a session extension."

"Yes, we are quite aware," said his uncle, arms crossed over his chest. "We know exactly how much you're charging."

"Fees range from £130 for two hours to £600 for eight hours." Henry finished, and, giving the clerk a dark smile in spite of his own lack of amusement, he added. "Not to mention the £120 charged per party _per hour_ if the extension is asked on the day."

 _Bloody leechers and Vultures_. Still, Henry held his wry smile. He had done some research of his own. He knew that sessions lasting well into the early hours were not uncommon. One thing was certain: the British government knew how to make money. Not that Henry disapproved of them. Quite on the contrary, actually. Given the right circumstances, he would do exactly the same — if not worse.

As the clerk left the room by awkward steps, Henry turned to Woodville, silently staring at his phone with a stern expression.

"Edward, I need you to get us travel tickets to Newport. I don't know if there are still available seats on the next train, but—"

"According to the National Rail website, no." Ed looked up from his mobile screen. "But while you were arguing with that poor clerk, I went ahead and booked us all train tickets to Cardiff. From there we'll have to take another train, but it's still the quickest possible route to Newport. I went ahead and did it—" He smiled, cheekily. "—From my phone."

Henry gave him a slight nod, pleasantly surprised for once that day. "Good job."  
  
Credit given where credit was due, that had always been Henry's policy. He made a mental note to remind himself: Woodville knew how to act quick. That could come in handy again some day.

"What can I say, boss?" Ed quipped with a smirk. "This is an excellent team."

Henry smiled, a thin line curling his lips. Indeed, they were all excellent. Henry could never do without them. They had been beaten up some steps, yes, but they were still on the game.

"Then," Henry gave his team a straight look, full of unflinching determination. "We have a plan."

 

* * *

 

A pair of white starched shirts, three pairs of socks, two extra ties, underwear. How much could he fit into a small size trolley case? Henry got hold of the first pair of suit trousers he could find — regrettably, he could not even stop to decide on the colour — then picked the first ironed suit jacket he found hanging in his wardrobe (black, thankfully). That one he would have to carry on his arm. Henry stopped in front of the open suitcase laid atop his bed, scratched the back of his neck, took a drag off his cigarette. He abhorred not having enough time to pack properly, though he had tried to manage it as best as he could: soft garments were rolled and placed at the bottom, stiffer garments were folded and placed neatly over that first layer.

What else was he possibly missing? Henry turned a clinical eye at his jumble of clothes, cigarette smoke curling from his nostrils, the shades of inky blue and steel grey of his room swimming across his vision like the aftermaths of a knocked eye. He started going through his mental checklist again: laptop, shirts, underwear, shoes… Shit, he had left the shoes out. Now he would have to take out everything. Grunting, cigarette clamped between his teeth, he started pulling out his clothes when another thing came to mind: he rushed to the bathroom to get toothbrush and razor. He was still debating with himself rather he should take some shampoo, soap and shaving lotion or simply trust those dodgy hotel amenities as he went through his wallet and checked his documents and money again.

Henry stared at his passport: should he take that with him too? Would he have to make some other sudden trip, make another detour, fly to the continent? As insufferable as the idea was to him, he had to be prepared for all possible scenarios. By _fucking_ god! If there was one thing in life Henry hated more than anything, it had to be this: packing up his things at the speed of light, rushing off from place to place like a criminal, running away as if he was a thief hunted by a pack of dogs, frothing mouths and loud barking at his heels — a shadow chased by light, fleeing from dawn. All he had ever wanted in life was peace and order; instead, he was forced to stand helplessly as wave after wave of uncertainty came washing over him.

His mobile charger! Fuck, he was almost forgetting that too. And to think he was just standing there, brooding, dragging on his cigarette, losing a precious amount of time! Henry walked over to the living room to unplug the charger from the wall, and if not for that random decision, he would not have heard the knocking coming from his door. He stepped closer and heard his name called from the other side. _Lizzie_. The ground floor neighbour must have opened the door for her. Henry rushed to get rid of his cigarette —  _I'm coming! —_  gulped down a glass of water to rinse his mouth, washed his hands.

"Is your doorbell not working?" She asked as he finally opened the door, looking quite flushed and out of breath. Had she ran up the stairs, he wondered. If so, then why? Why was she in such a state of hurry?

"I don't know." Henry reached over, tested the button with a thin finger pad. "Looks like it's not."

"You know," She pushed her way in. "I wouldn't have to knock like a beggar if you had given me your keys by now."

Impressed and alarmed in equal measure, Henry watched in unparalleled bewilderment as Lizzie strode across his open-plan living room — washed jeans swaying, white boots trodding the hardwood floor — watched as she took off her coat and dropped her purse on the kitchen worktop. She looked awfully attractive that day in her long sleeve, body-hugging top, or maybe it was that state of rebellion in which she had stormed into his flat. Whatever it was, it gave him the urge to walk over to her, turn her around and kiss her long and deep.  _When was the last time they had had sex?_ That line of thought sent a pang of sharp guilt to his conscience, it made him feel like that wanker John de la Pole, ogling at her. He hastened to ask, if only to shake that uncomfortable feeling off:

"What's going on?"

Lizzie turned to him and stopped, frowning. "Are you… are you smoking?"

 _Shite_. Henry took out the fresh cigarette peeking out of his breast pocket, an item he had since then forgotten all about. _More like he was smoking_.

"Well, yes?" He wore an expression that was meant to say: _and what about it?_

Lizzie blinked twice, looked to the side and took in her breath sharply before facing him again. "Did you know there's a cab outside waiting to take Mr Henry Tudor to Paddington station?"

"Yes," He replied simply, quite matter-of-factly. "I was just finishing packing my things when you walked in."

Lizzie blinked again, bit her lower lip. "You were going away without telling me?"

An exasperated sigh escaped him. It took all his strength of will to not roll his eyes. "It's a work-related thing, Lizzie. It was all quite sudden." He made his way back to his room by long and quick strides. "I didn't have _time_ to tell you. I _still don't have time_ to tell you! The ticket is already bought and the train waits for no one."

She did a little jog to catch up to him, the sound of her heels coming from behind him. "But—but where are you going?"

"Cardiff." Stopping in front of his trolley case, he pulled out one of the suit trousers and replaced it with another one, a black trouser that time to match the spare jacket. "From there, another train to Newport."

" _Wales?_ " Her voice rose in the air, sounding horrified and disbelieving. "You're leaving the country?"

Henry rolled his eyes freely that time. Really, he didn't have time for that tête-à-tête. "It's _South_ Wales, Lizzie! It's just over there, right next door. It shouldn't take more than a few days till I return."

"But I… I said I needed to talk to you."

Henry shot her a sideways glance over his shoulder. "I know perfectly well what you said. As it is, I'm not deaf yet." Knowing the cab was already outside, he shoved the rest of his things inside his luggage with no finesse whatsoever and started zipping it up. "We'll have that talk when I come back."

"But I—"

"Lizzie, listen!" He whirled around to face her, shot her a serious look whilst dragging the trolley case to the floor. "We'll talk when I come back, ok? This is urgent. I don't have time for you now."

She looked at him with those round, honey eyes. "Do you ever?"

Henry frowned. "I'm sorry?"

He wasn't sure he had heard her right ( _what did she mean by that?)_ , but Lizzie only shook her head before turning her face to the side again, seemingly refusing to hold his gaze for longer. Eyebrows furrowed, she wrapped her arms around her middle.

"Will you be back for Valentine's?"

 _Yes_ was his immediate reply, though in truth he had completely forgotten about that approaching holiday ( _that very week!_ he was only remembering it now) and he had no idea how many days it would take him to get that dispute resolved. He had prepared himself for a full-on week before that appointment disaster, there was no way he could predict it now. Since his birthday celebrations had been rather discreet that year, Henry knew he should compensate for Lizzie in some way at least.

"—Though I don't know what time I should be back yet. I'll text you when I'm sure."

She didn't reply, just sullenly stared at her rather '60s-looking boots, arms crossed. Henry draped the spare suit jacket over his arm and started rolling his lugagge towards the door. "In the meantime—" He stopped, patting his pockets. "Have you… have you seen my glasses?"

That time Lizzie replied with squinted eyes and an exasperated wave of hand. "They're on your face!"

"Ah." He touched the steel rim of his glasses, realising that himself. "Cheers, darling. As I was saying—" He flashed her the briefest of smiles, then powered through. "—In the meantime, try to lie low. Be careful while I'm gone: don't go out too late, don't stay outdoors for too long. You know the drill, we've been through this. Know that I'm certainly not happy to go while leaving that matter unresolved." _Fucking John de la Pole_.

"Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit? I'm not—"

"—As for your sister, tell her I won’t be able to get her out of trouble this time around.”

"My _sister?_ "

"You heard me quite well the first time," Henry said, mindlessly, sliding his passport into the pocket inside his jacket and turning to face the door. "There's no need to parrot it back."

He had said ' _her sister'_ but hell, he could be talking about her whole family for that matter. Henry had never seen a more messy or troublesome family than Lizzie's — nor a more quarrelsome one too. In-fighting seemed to be the norm among them.

" _Fine_." Henry heard a muffled sound, something like a sniffle. "We'll do it your way." A second sniffle. "We always do it your way."

His ears tingled, he grew quiet and listened. Was Lizzie... was she... crying?

_Oh shit. Oh God. Oh fuck._

He turned in time to see her wiping one cheek with the bottom of her long sleeve. If there was any way to know how it felt like to be slapped across the face without actually being slapped, that must have been it. Henry rushed to say something, but only managed to blurt out:

"Fuck, what did I do now?" He took a step towards her. "What did I say?"

She looked at him through under her lashes, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" He was flabbergasted she was even asking. He gestured at her whole being. "Lizzie, you're crying!"

"I'm not crying!" She fired back, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm _angry!_ "

By that point her face had bloomed an intense red, especially at the tip of her nose. It looked redder than the rose he had gifted her only a fortnight before, something especially remarkable when contrasted against the pink top she was wearing. It was a wonder she had not rushed to the loo already in search of some tissue to blow her nose with.

"Are you..." Henry was trying to find a _reason_ for her state. "Are you on your period?"

That question only made her cry harder. She hid her face behind her hands and turned away from him. _Stupid, foolish, beastly question!_ Yet there was no end to his perplexity. What was he supposed to do? Lizzie didn't say a word, she only cried!

"Lizzie, listen. I need you to tell me what's wrong." He was trying, but when would she learn how to communicate? "I'm not a mind-reader! If you don't tell me what's wrong with you—"

"I'm pregnant!" She dropped her hands from her face, eyes glittering and full of tears. She smiled the bitterest, most heartbreaking smile. "That's what's wrong with me."

Slack-jawed, caught in pure astonishment, the whole world seemed to stop for a moment. The planet forsook its ancient course around the sun, ceased its constant spinning on itself. What were the laws of physics compared to that orbit deviation, to that spiralling sensation that started to suck him in like a crazed wormhole?

" _How?_ " Henry heard himself speaking, automatic steps leading him closer. "Weren't you… weren't you on…" He himself wasn't even making sense by that point. "Well, weren't you?"

"Does it really matter now?" Lizzie wiped another cheek. "Does it really matter how I was _stupid—_ " A sniffle. "— _stupid_ enough to get myself pregnant when I haven't even graduated yet?"

"You didn't _get yourself pregnant_. I think I had a large part in that."

Truthfully, he was the one to blame. God, how did he let that happen? Everything Henry did was calculated, planned in minuscule detail, thought of months in advance. Everything, except, of course, when it came down to _Lizzie_. Around her, he felt turning into goo, into a mindless walking biped. Since when had he started being so reckless?

Lizzie shook her head, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes as a new influx of tears took over her. Henry had never seen her so distraught before. She did her crying by small short whimpers cut by shallow intakes of air. They made a terrible agonising sound as if she was choking, gasping. It was excruciating to watch. Henry had never felt so useless, so pointless. He had to do something,  _anything_ , though he didn't have much of a clue about where to start.

"Lizzie..." She kept silent. " _Lizzie._ "

He threw the jacket over some surface — table, chair, sofa, it didn't matter — and walked over to her, extended his arms forward to draw her into an embrace. Lizzie protested at first, but he managed to wrap her inside his arms after the first few faint complaints. He started stroking her hair but she was still shaking her head, still trying to talk, trying to say something, but no matter how hard she tried everything was coming out unintelligible.

"Shh, it's alright." He clutched her tighter, cheek against cheek. "It's alright, Lizzie."

Her tears were falling on his shoulder, warmth soaking through the fabric.

"It's not." He felt her squeeze him back. "It's not alright."

Henry took on his calmest voice, drawled each word. "It is, you'll see." Stroking, stroking her hair strands. "Everything is going to be alright."

She pulled back, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "I'm ruining your suit."

Henry couldn't care less about his suit than at that moment, couldn't care less about the cab waiting outside. Let it leave, he would call another. He pulled out his pocket square for her, and she pressed the silk to her eyes. It was a dark grey meant to match his jacket discreetly, but it had a silvery, glossy sheen to make for a final touch, a shade close to graphite.

“I’m sorry, my nose has been so runny these days... I don't want to ruin your hankie.”

Henry shook his head, leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek. “That handkerchief is nothing to me.”

 _Nothing to me compared to you_.

That made her look up at last. Lizzie spent some seconds looking at him, stared until she put her arms around his shoulders, hid her face in the crook of his neck. Her sigh tickled his skin, a warm soft breeze. "You smell really good."

He chuckled, spoke into her hair. "You do too."

Henry didn't know what was it that Lizzie put in her hair  _—_ whether it was her shampoo or conditioner or some fragrant oil  _—_ but her hair always smelled so unbelievably good. It was so thick and smooth, of such a beautiful colour  _—_ a shade close to molten gold  _—_ it was no wonder Henry loved burying his nose inside it whenever he got the chance. 

She grew calmer then, steadier. Henry didn't need to coax her into talking; she began speaking freely, an overflowing cup of tea spilling its contents. Arms laced around her waist, he listened attentively as his thumbs drew circles on the small of her back. Lizzie told him about a pharmacy test she had taken, told him about how her period was late but she hadn't thought much of it until her symptoms started.

"How many weeks, did the test say?"

Though reluctantly, Lizzie answered his question. "Six weeks... Seven by now, I think."

Henry added up the numbers in his head. _It must have happened around Christmas, then_. Lizzie had been so happy during the holidays — especially, he had reckoned, because her situation was so drastically different from her family's around the same time in the previous year. She had seemed radiant to him then, brimming with delight, sunlight made flesh.  _What an irony of fate._ In another life, that child would be considered a blessing, a Christmas miracle, a godsent present. Except… it _was_ still a blessing, was it not? Life on earth — little ball crossing the frigid void of space, full of misery and death — was still a wonder.

Henry moved one of his hands from the small of her back, circled her waist, pressed it against her stomach. He felt her spasm immediately under his touch.

"Stop it!" Lizzie stepped back brusquely, ankles twisting. She would have tripped if he hadn't held out his hand and gripped her arm, though ultimately she wrenched that away too. "Stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"As if I was some… some sort of oven."

Henry was almost offended. "I'm not!"

"You don't understand.” Her voice was rising, frantic, eyes blinking. “You _can't_ understand! It's not the same for you. You're not the one people will be talking about.”

A long comment on her family's likely reaction followed suit: what sort of example she would be giving to her sisters, the cruel remarks her aunt Margaret would surely be throwing at her, her grandmother Cecily's disappointment and likely-to-follow indignation.  _She'll say it's all my mother's fault. Everything's my mother's fault! Did you know that?_ Years and years of resentment and bitterness that would be laid at her feet, the next likely candidate to bear the family cross — and in her desperation, Lizzie was thinking of  _everyone_ , everyone but herself.

"Just forget about them, Lizzie."

"—And my own father! What would he even say, what would he even think—"

Henry was _sick_ of hearing about Edward York.

"Who cares what your father would think?" He snapped. "He's dead!"

Lizzie gasped out loud, bit her lip — shoulders pulled towards her neck, eyes squinting — held her breath until she couldn't any longer and let out a painful sob, pushed him away.

" _I_ do!" Lizzie wandered around aimlessly till she sank into his sofa. " _I_ care!" Tremulous hand rubbing one eye, voice small. "And I think that counts for something."

A feeling of shame burned through him. Why would he say that to her? Why would _anyone ever_ say that to her? Henry dropped his eyes to the floor, muttered what was the beginning of an apology.

"Lizzie... I'm sorry."

"You're always saying that." She sniffled, pressed his handkerchief against the corner of one eye. "You always say you're sorry."

Her words pierced his heart in acute stings, needles pushed straight into his flesh. She wiped each of her cheeks clean and paused, staring ahead, frozen. Watching her cry had been torture enough, but seeing her catatonic state now sent him down a path close to despair.

A morbid thought gripped him: how does a man know when he is drowning in himself? How does one know the moment his lungs stop working, his breath ceases, and the hollow inside his chest fills up with liquid? Does it happen suddenly, he wondered, at the strike of a thunderstorm, like the hull of a ship cracked open and split in two? Or does it happen slowly — the waters lapping at your feet, soaking the skin, rising and rising up your body as the wreckage of your heart sinks deeper and deeper until they finally close over your head? Gasping for air, finding only water. And water, more and more water. A bottomless pool, an ocean’s worth of choking. Death by drowning.

"I don't think this is going to work."

Her voice came to him as if from a long, long distance, flat and robotic.

"Of course it will." Henry made his way to her, crouched down by her side and laid a hand on top of hers. "We'll make it work."

"That's not… that's not how it goes."

"It will.” He insisted, trying to make her see. “We can do it together."

"Together?" Lizzie pulled herself up, stared at him with accusing eyes. "You barely have time for me now—you barely have—” She had to stop and breathe. “Unless—unless it's to invite me to one of your parties or to call me to your bed."

Henry was stunned beyond expression. " _Lizzie!_ "

"I truly feel…” A pause, a heave. “... like a high-class escort."

“Darling, no!” He was finally seeing the extent of the damage. "You're letting that man get into your head!"

"It's not him, Henry!" Her eyes stared at him as if he could not understand a thing. "You say we'll do it together but you haven't even given me your _keys_."

"Is it my keys that you want?" He fumbled, searching his pockets. "Here." He pressed them against her palm, imploringly. "You can have them."

"It's not your keys that I want!” Lizzie returned them with equal speed. “It's your _heart_." For a second it looked like she might have cried again, but she held her gaze. " _All_ of it. Not just what you choose to give me."

 _You have my heart_ , he wanted to tell her,  _I love you so_. Yet the words wouldn’t leave his mouth: they got caught up in his throat and they died there. There was nothing to fill the pause that followed. The very silence seemed to ricochet on the walls, hanging heavily above them. Neither of them spoke a word, but the air between them was so thick it could be cut in two with the edge of a knife.

_buzzzzzz buzzzzzz buzzzzzz buzzzzzz buzzzzzz buzzzzzz buzzzzzz buzzzzzz_

His mobile always did ring at the worst possible time. 

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

Though not unkind, there was a touch of challenge in her voice.

"No."

Still, his phone vibrated inside his pocket. Ceaselessly, ceaselessly, ceaselessly.

"Don't you have a train to catch?"

He didn't knowwhat answer to give her. He knew he needed to give her the _right_ answer, but in that quest for words, he had come down empty.

When the buzzing finally died, Lizzie broke their stare to look down at her hands. She started folding his pocket square with deft fingers. They worked wondrously, with all the sharp precision of a classically trained pianist. Henry had been fascinated by the dexterity of her hands when he had first watched her sew. Lizzie placed the handkerchief over her hand, tucked the fabric between the circle of her thumb and forefinger, making a bundle that she started twisting in a circular, clockwise motion. She cinched the fabric, organised the draped folds, then carefully placed the handkerchief in his pocket. It had the shape of a rose. Never had an act of tenderness inspired in him such terror.

Her eyes rose up to meet his. "I'm leaving."

His place, his flat? Or... _him?_ There was no time for guessing. Lizzie had already put on her coat, had already taken her purse and was about to cross the door.

“Lizzie!” She turned to him, one hand on the doorknob. “You’re not…” His eyes trailled down to her stomach. “You won’t—you wouldn’t—”

“I don’t know!” His question turned her steps into fleeing. “I don’t know anything anymore! I have to think!”

He should have let her go, his rational side was telling him as much, but that other side of him — that painfully lovesick side — made him rush up to her, made him catch her on the first landing of the stairs. It made him wrap his arms around her, hug her from behind to make her stop and  _wait_. Carefully, he laid his chin on her shoulder.

“Don’t go,” It was just a matter of talking it over. “Stay.” They would find a way together, they always did.

"Please, let me go." Her hands reached for his arms, they encircled his wrists. “Let me go. I’m—” The hollow inside her voice broke down, failing and weak. 

“No.” His arms released her only to rotate her around. He cleaned a tear with his thumb. “Never.” He kissed one of her eyelids, kissed one salty cheek. “Never.” His lips found hers, coaxed them to join his own — he would kiss her fears away if he could, erase all of her doubts or die trying.

Lizzie pressed her hands to his chest mid-kiss and pushed him away. “You _will_ let me go." There was aggravation in her eyes. "I’m not a thing for you to hold on—not some doll for you to drag around!”

Was that what she thought of him? That he was some spoiled boy clutching his toy, refusing to put it down? Henry needed to make her _see_ , he needed to make her _understand_.

She jerked her hand away when he tried to take it in his own. "No."

"What do you mean, no?"

He took a step forward to close the gap left by her refusal, but she stepped back again.

"Henry, I said _no_."

Her  _no_  reverberated in the space between them like a full stop — definite, solid, heavy — yet for him, it contained all the uncertainty of a black hole. Henry did not deal in uncertainties; his mind could only work with absolutes: numbers, fractions, divisions, codes. Her  _no_  was an engulfing blackness that made him weak at his knees. He had never imagined a future where she wouldn't say _yes_.

Who was that woman standing in front of him now? Who was that unrelenting stranger? Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, they flickered like flames seen through a mirror of water — undulating, yet ever burning. Her gaze, always as soft as a caress, was hard on him now, two gemstones that encrusted her impassive marble face, amber-gold and unyielding. Stoic as she might have wanted to seem, her whole body betrayed an intense emotion: her chest rose and fell with each intake of air, her bottom lip was quivering, one blinking eye was larger than the other.

Those blinking, mismatched eyes impressed him terribly. Never in his eyes had she looked more beautiful than at that moment, never had she looked more terrible, more unsettling, never had she appeared more striking than at her relentlessness. Never had she glowed with such otherworldly divinity. It was a tragedy that such a hard stance was taken against none other than himself. Her divine beauty burned him.

"Lizzie—" He reached out to her, grasping fingers and desperation. "—My love, my darling, angel. Don't do this to me."

" _Angel?_ " She sounded almost offended in her disbelief. "What's next on your list? _Sugar cane?_ "

He dropped his gaze to the ground. Why did his eyes sting so much? Why did he feel such a scalding humiliation running through him like thick, black bile? It burned to face one's own shortcomings, he supposed, it burned to confront one's own failures. He heard her weary sigh, saw her white boots shifting their stance.

"You should go get your train. I don't want you to be late."

She had gone down the last flight of stairs, was unlocking the door and turning on the handle — and he just standing there, watching her leave!

“Lizzie, I love you!” That would be his last unspoken plea. "Please believe me when I say it."

Why had he waited so long to tell her that? Why had he kept those words so close to his chest, like some trump card he was waiting to play at the very last minute? Always too cautious, always too closed in himself, always too afraid to give himself away.

“It’s not enough." In her eyes, he read all the hurting of the world. "Just saying you love me is not enough.”

 _Go catch your train_ , she told him before crossing the door and stepping out into the road. Inside his pocket, his mobile raged and buzzed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> This story is officially past 50k words. I wanted to thank all of you who have read it so far (despite the long wait between updates), the ones who have commented and the ones with whom I've exchanged so many messages about plot points, character arcs, settings... Truly I couldn't be grateful enough for all the support my loving readers have given me so far. Rest assured! This story _has_ a happy ending. I can't wait to see all of you again next chapter. As always, my inbox is always open x


	11. Don't Forget the Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing filling the room was the sweet, overbearing smell of his roses. Windows closed shut, their rich aroma had grown into an intoxicating and oppressive odour as the dead hours went by, a premature withering taking place in the inside of that tomblike room.

Month after month, all she had ever wanted was a day exactly like that. There had been no lectures, no coursework, no last-minute cleaning, no sudden obligation she had to rush and fulfil. She had spent hours away lying in bed, her fuzzy yellow socks warming her feet, her head laid over pillows and pillows covered in light green satin. There had been no sound for once, no noise at home, just the constant dripping of the rain battering against her windowpanes. There was also the tiny, littlest detail that it was Valentine’s, but that didn’t mean much to Maggie. It was, nonetheless, the perfect excuse to stay under the covers and spend the whole day eating popcorn and watching Netflix. The combination of rain and quiet had made for the perfect environment to catch up on tv shows. There was, of course, that corner of her mind telling her she should get up and finish her essay, but since next week was going to be _reading week_ , Maggie had decided to ignore it most gloriously.

Every student knew reading week was a time to catch up on coursework and deadlines, yet everyone also knew it was actually an excuse to go back home and forget all about uni for a short span of days. One of Maggie's friends was going back to her parents in Blackwell, the other one was going back to her home in Leeds. Oh well, if only Maggie could say the same! She, too, wanted to get away from London for the time, but what home would she go back to, after all? Grandma Cecily’s? Uncle Richie’s? Maggie was overly tired of feeling like a lost nomad wandering from house to house _._ Her only comfort that time would be small and familiar, the only constant in her life so far: Teddy was coming over to spend the following week with her. Just a couple of hours more and Maggie would have to get her lazy bum up and out of the sheets to fetch her brother at King’s Cross.

Just thinking about hopping on the tube made her sigh and rub her eyes. Maggie disliked London. She was flabbergasted there were people who actually liked living there. The city was terribly expensive. Unless it was one of those Wetherspoons, she couldn’t find a single pub where they charged less than a fiver for a pint. She spent so much money on groceries, during weekdays she had to survive on those Tesco’s £3 sandwich deals for a lunch. The air in London felt so dirty, so heavy, the first week she arrived there she had woken up every morning with a bleeding nose, hand desperately fumbling for the Kleenex box placed on her nightstand. To that day, little black speckles were still occasionally expelled from her nostrils. 

London was also painfully, utterly noisy. Buses and car horns would be heard throughout the whole day, but at night it was actually worse: waking up at three a.m. because some drunkard was shouting at the top of his lungs right under her window had not been an uncommon experience for Maggie. She had witnessed everything from her room: brawls, running contests, arguing couples, and even what had looked like some type of gang revenge as she peered from the corner of her window, astonished and half hidden, watching as someone crashed a bottle against a man's head. Should she have rung the police? Or was that actually... normal?

Obviously, thanks to her cousin Lizzie, she was living in an incredibly privileged and central area of the city, though sometimes Maggie wished she lived in the outskirts for all the noise she had to endure each night. Maggie had tried to be thankful — few people could boast of writing down the famous City of Westminster  _W1_ postcode when giving their address, and even fewer students could skip a crowded commute and get to uni by foot. Lizzie, now restored to her father’s full inheritance, paid for almost the whole rent of the place, and the rest was paid in her name by Grandma Cecily — for a time, the only relative that had looked after Maggie and her brother. Maggie should have been used to be someone’s burden by then, but try as she might, she couldn’t swallow that role very well. 

Lizzie seemed considerate enough of her situation, but she didn’t really understand it. How could she? With the exception of a couple of odd years, she had always been too privileged to really gauge the full length of Maggie's place of disadvantage. Rich, white, pretty, she and her sisters had been the epitome of the _West London girl,_ something like the incarnation of the glamourised Posh Spice lifestyle. Neither Lizzie or Cece, amiable as they were, could really understand what it was like to care for a brother like Teddy, or what it felt like to have your grandmother constantly calling one of your uncles to ask if they could pay for their school uniform that year.

_(Uncle Richard wasn’t the bad wolf Lizzie and her sisters took him to be. He had actually helped her and Teddy, though, admittedly, not before Grandma Cecily had made some noise in their behalf)._

Sometimes it was just a baffling lack of self-awareness. Cece was always inviting her to go out to places Maggie simply couldn’t afford, and Lizzie — as much as she took herself to be this great sort of samaritan — was always suggesting to buy some new item or appliance to their flat. _Oh, what do you think of this light fitting_ , she would say, breathless and eyes shining,  _isn’t it so very pretty?_   _What of this vintage china? Isn’t it the most beautiful piece of porcelain you’ve ever seen?_ And even though she always said Maggie didn’t need to pay for a thing, Maggie felt bad for not sharing the full expenses of the flat. She would spend a whole month saving money before she could pay her part back to her cousin, only for Lizzie to turn down her offer with an uncomfortable smile and an awkward shake of her head. _You don’t need to pay me, just… buy some other thing you want, how about that?_

Those were times Maggie wished she had her own place. It was her flat, but not really _her_ flat _._ Hers had been an uncomfortable situation since the beginning, like that time she had to keep quiet about the scandalous fact that Lizzie had a boyfriend. Maggie didn’t want to be involved in that narrative — in _any_ narrative, in fact. _No sir, thank you so very much_. Still, everything had started making sense after she found out her cousin had had a boyfriend all along. Wednesday night was their preferred night for dining out, it seemed, for all the times she had watched Lizzie leaving their flat all dolled up. Later Maggie would discover her boyfriend spent almost every Friday night working extra hours: Lizzie would leave very late on Fridays and only come back home the next Monday. Maggie had spent months worrying about her; she didn’t do that anymore.

If anything, she was glad Lizzie’s boyfriend had his own place. He didn’t really let Maggie at ease. At first, she had not been able to understand what Lizzie had seen in him. Unlike her cousin — who looked like a Barbie doll with her blonde looks and rosy beauty — he wasn’t _handsome_ in the traditional sense of the word, though he did have some striking features that might have attracted her cousin’s attention. Appearance aside, he had a polished, mannered charm, civil but bordering on chilling. Maggie never knew when he was serious or plainly taking the piss. The only clue usually came in the form of her cousin's sudden cascading laugh, followed by her boyfriend looking properly chuffed about it. Whenever Maggie saw his smile — which was seldom — she got the sense it flashed like the sharp edge of a white knife: a smile honed like a weapon. Then, getting to know her cousin better, she understood what Lizzie had seen in him. As much as her cousin had always strived to be perfect in everything — or perhaps precisely because of that — she had an odd side, rather reckless in nature, the type of inner side that was always dancing too close to the edge.

Not that Maggie would ever actually tell her cousin any of that. Lizzie seemed perfectly happy with that man. It was almost comical to watch the speed with which she would leave their flat, with scarcely enough time to shout a ‘ _Henry’s here, I’m going!’_ before stepping outside. Maggie had watched her twice from her window by now, making her way to her boyfriend by quick, hopping steps. He had been on his phone both times, looking rather busy and important in his suit — but he did put it away to open his arms to her cousin. He placed it in his pocket to catch her and spin her around in one swift swoop. The scene had looked rather more tender than Maggie had thought them to be, actually. 

Something odd must have happened between those two. It was not just that fight she had unfortunately walked in on the other day, but she had noticed Lizzie was spending more and more time at home. Wednesday nights weren’t a thing anymore, it seemed, and it had been two weekends on a row since Lizzie had last gone to his place. Whatever it was that had happened between them, Maggie wanted to stay  _out_ of it. Just some three nights before Lizzie had come back home in a terrible crying state. Seeing her, Maggie had simply let out a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes and leafing through her textbook before asking:

_"Did the two of you fight again?"_

Lizzie then replied to her in a way she had never done before.

_"Why do you want to know? Don’t you have anything better to do?"_

To say that Maggie was sent into a state of astonishment was a severe understatement. Not understanding a thing that was going on with her cousin, Maggie watched with round eyes as Lizzie rushed to lock herself in her room with a _‘Leave me alone!’_ that rang as loudly as the sound of her door slamming shut. Maggie heard crying for a good part of an hour, and it was only after she went over to knock on Lizzie’s door to ask if she was alright that the crying stopped. An odd silence came from her room then, something like what the inside of a sepulchre must sound. _Poor Lizzie_. She should follow Aunt Margaret’s advice, she who was always so quick-witted and sharp-tongued: _if he makes you cry... leave him._

Well, that was another thing Maggie wasn’t actually going to tell her cousin. For all she knew, they had made up again. It was Valentine’s and she hadn’t seen Lizzie all day, which only made perfect sense. Her boyfriend had sent a gigantic rose bouquet to their address. Maggie had counted all the stems, thirty-five _white_ roses in total (he got the right colour that time), all of them looking fresh and dainty — an order from a traditional flower shop in Knightsbridge that couldn’t have cost him less than two hundred pounds. There was also a single red rose wrapped in cellophane with a card attached to it. Maggie had felt the temptation to open the card and read its contents all day, but ultimately her better judgement had decided against it. She put the bouquet in a flower vase and placed it inside her cousin's room instead. Lizzie’s boyfriend was always buying her expensive things, sure, but when a man bought a bouquet of that size… it had _sorry_  written all over it. Invisible, but at the same time, bright neon letters spelling his guilt.

Oh, the hour! Maggie lept from the bed. It was five past ten, she had to get to King’s Cross within the hour else Teddy would be waiting for far too long and all by himself. She hastily put on a jumper and her polka-dot scarf, slipped on her trainers and got her parka on. She was about to leave when she remembered her oyster card and, just as she was about to go back to her room to fetch it, the doorbell rang, loud and ominous. Maggie stood still for a few seconds. Who could that be, that late at night? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly. They wouldn’t ring the door to get in, or at least Maggie thought so. She knew little about the crime scene in London, though, and even less about burglar etiquette, so she didn’t know exactly what to expect. Cursing herself, Maggie shrugged herself off her state of terror and approached the door by careful, tentative steps. Maybe it was Lizzie, returned at last but without her keys for some reason. Looking through the peephole, she couldn’t be more dismayed: it was not her cousin whom she saw, but her very boyfriend instead.

_Speaking of the devil._

Maggie considered not answering the door, but he rang the doorbell again, a sharp chime coming through the speakers with great resolution. She couldn’t wait for him to leave, she needed to go to Teddy! Who knew how long the man would stand there ringing the doorbell? Maggie took her breath in, almost crossing herself, and opened the door just far enough for him to see her. He did the same face he always did when it was Maggie the one who opened the door, a look that she didn’t know whether it was displeasure or disappointment or, in the case of that night, dismay.

“Hello, Margaret.” He blinked uncomfortably from behind his glasses, his words paused and deliberate, almost contrite. “I would very much like to have a word with Lizzie. Can I come in?”

But—but… she thought Lizzie had spent the day with him? Her state of confusion was so sharp, so acute, she blurted her reply within a heartbeat.

“She’s not in.”

He frowned, brows pinched tightly over the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean she’s not in?” 

He uttered those words over a shallow, quick breath, and Maggie took a better look at him, realising, at last, his whole state of disarray. He seemed rather pale, not enough colour in his face. His hair — usually what Maggie judged to be a light brown — looked darker and damp. The grey overcoat he was wearing had dark patches along the shoulders that looked almost black on the fabric. By the look of it all, he must have caught some of the rain outside. It was a miracle he wasn't shivering under those wet clothes. Some steps behind him, a trolley case stood solitary in its place, but the item looked like such a separate entity from him, so forgotten next to the stairs, it could be anyone’s lost possession. His voice roused her from her assessment.

“It’s a quarter past ten.” He was visibly trying to remain calm, but a touch of exasperation tinged his words. “Where else could she possibly be at this hour?”

Maggie didn’t like his tone one bit. What was he implying? That she was lying to him about Lizzie's whereabouts?  _She's at the pub, you thickhead_ , Maggie wanted to tell him,  _downing pints and chatting up guys._ Spiteful and satisfying as that lie would be, Maggie knew he wouldn't believe her. She shifted her weight in place, herself impatient by then.

“Look, mate, I’m telling you all I know. It’s nothing personal, I swear by it, but I've got somewhere else to be, so. Ta ta, goodnight.” 

He stuck his foot in the door’s path before she could shut it on his face.

“Margaret,” he restarted from the other side of the door, pausing his words again with what sounded like a great effort. “I am _asking_ you, as nicely as I possibly can right now, to please let me go talk to her.” Voice strained, he sounded crushed to the spot, wind fled from his lungs. “I _need_ to talk to her.”

His last sentence was curt, uttered over a tense intake of breath. Maggie didn’t know whether it was out of fear, pity or tiredness that she opened the door for him, sighing and waving her hand to let him inside. “See for yourself.”

He pushed his way in without much ceremony, leaving his trolley case behind. “She’s been unreachable these days. She's not answering my calls, she’s not replying to my texts."

 _Oh_... that was unexpected. Maggie had thought they were together again by then, but in that case, she shouldn’t even have let him inside, should she? There was no way to stop him once she had opened the door for him, though. He crossed their living room by quick, long steps _(how did he walk so fast?)_ , and Maggie had to rush to keep up with him. 

“Just… just be quick about it, alright?" She told him simply, but carefully. "I need to leave soon.” Lord almighty, why did she always feel like she needed to walk on eggshells around that man? “Teddy will be arriving at the station any minute now and I don't want to leave him alone for too long.”

Her cousin's boyfriend waved a careless, impatient hand. “Teddy can bloody wait, can’t he?” He stopped in front of Lizzie’s door, right about to start knocking. “What’s going to happen if he waits? Drop stiff and die?”

Maggie suppressed a gasp. Unfeeling, uncaring, selfish man! How did her cousin even stand him? Lizzie must be a saint, that was a given now. She would skip the whole of purgatory and go straight into heaven when she died.

“Lizzie.” He called after her cousin, knocking on her door by quick and precise raps. “Lizzie, it’s me.” He knocked some more. “Please, open up. We need to talk.” He waited a moment or two before he knocked again. “Lizzie, please.”

As no answer came from the other side, his hand found its way to the doorknob. He hesitated for a second, then tested it, finding it unlocked.

Stepping inside her room didn’t bring him any apparent relief. He walked into a dim, silent space. He turned on the lights with a crackle and stood frozen, almost unbalanced in his stillness. In front of him, Lizzie’s room unveiled itself as an empty cardboard box, as frigid and impersonal as a hospital chamber: desk cleaned of any objects, walls stripped of all previous decorations, and perhaps most importantly of all, space devoid of the very person he was looking for. Aside from the covers on her bed, the only thing filling the room was the sweet, overbearing smell of his roses. Windows closed shut, their rich aroma had grown into an intoxicating and oppressive odour as the dead hours went by, a premature withering taking place in the inside of that tomblike room.

“What…” He blinked for some seconds, still finding his bearings, uncomfortable with the glaring fluorescent lights. He looked in all directions, head going into a half-circular motion from white wall to white wall. “What happened in here?”

He removed his steel-rimmed glasses and began to polish them on the fabric of the scarf hanging limply around his neck, as though cleaning some smudge or dust from the lenses would help him see better or change reality altogether. He looked overwhelmed by those empty walls. Maggie had never seen someone looking so out of place before.

She couldn’t help the satisfaction coiling around her heart like a venomous snake. Maggie smirked behind his back, _I told you so_ filling her mind to the brim. All that big gesture display of braving the rain late at night to apologise to the girl was done for nothing, it had gone to waste. That was better left to the Netflix rom-com where it belonged.

“I told you she was not here.”

He turned around abruptly, almost jumping, as if he had forgotten her presence in the room and had just remembered it again. He blurted a heavy load of questions at once, scarcely pausing between his words. 

“Did she tell you where she was going to?” His eyes on hers were frantic, insistent. They looked smaller than they normally did from behind his glasses. “Did she tell you when she would be back? At what time? Did she?”

Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in three days.” 

He almost dropped his glasses. _"You haven’t seen her in three days?!”_  

“Hmm... no?”

He pushed his glasses back in, voice rising in incredulity. “Your cousin has been missing for _three days,_ and you didn’t think there was anything wrong?!” He was breathing hard by then. “Are you having a laugh?"

She stammered, defensively. “I—I—I thought she was staying with you!”

“I was in Newport!”

“How was _I_ supposed to know?” She fired back, pacing around. “Lizzie goes to your place and stays _days_ at a time! She barely even sends a text when she does. She just goes there, like it's the most normal thing in the world to do." Maggie was surprised she was matching his tone, but the realisation didn’t stop her from going on. "Honestly, I don’t even know why you haven’t moved in together by now. It’s not my fault if she's gone missing."

Henry staggered. His hand found the back of a chair and he lowered himself into it slowly, looking even paler than before. “I shouldn’t have gone to Newport.”

He stared at the walls, eyes out of focus, one hand going through his damped hair strands. By then, his skin had acquired the greenish complexion of a corpse, lips cracked, as if he was about to throw up. “Oh, God!” He exclaimed all of a sudden, lowering his face to one hand, fingers pressed against his eyes.

 _Oh no, no, no._ Was he… Oh my, was he going to... Was he going to cry? What was Maggie supposed to do if a grown man started crying in front of her? Not any man, in fact, but _Henry blooming Tudor!_ She would rather deal with Lizzie’s terrifying stony boyfriend again that whatever that mess of a human in front of her was. Maggie was  _not_ supposed to feel bad for him.

“Look, I know how you feel. Now I’m worried about her too.” She tried, very awkwardly, to offer some words of commiseration. “I mean... I get it, ok? Lizzie’s my cousin, I love her—”

He raised his head. “Well, I love her too!" He shot her a look that was part dread, part indignation. "More than you! More than anyone, in fact! Now _where_ is she?”

Maggie could only stare, dumbfounded for a moment. “I’m… sure we shouldn’t worry.” She was trying to reassure him, but with each passing second, she herself felt less certain of her words. “It’s Lizzie we’re talking about..." Lizzie, the responsible cousin, she who made sure everyone was doing fine. "I reckon she’s probably... alright.”

“You don’t know half of what she’s going through!” He protested in one quick breath, eyes blazing. “How can you be so sure?”

Maggie fidgeted with her hands, feeling like under police interrogation even though he was the one sitting and she the one standing. “She… she left me a note telling me not to worry. She’s fine, I think.”

He suppressed a sharp cough and got choked up for a second, small tear leaking from his left eye. He cleared his throat and ploughed through, his voice scratchy and raw. “She left _you_ a note?”

“Hmm… yes?” She immediately regretted telling him, for he looked even worse than before. “I can… show you the note if you want...?”

He nodded, eagerly bobbing his head. “Bring it to me.”

So far in her mind, Lizzie's mysterious behaviour had been short-lived. The morning after she came home crying, Maggie proceeded in much the same way that her boyfriend had done just then — she had knocked on her room for some time before giving up and opening the door, only to find the room empty. In truth, it was empty with the exception of a few things: atop her bed, two folded white shirts were neatly stacked, placed together along with a small red notebook. Maggie had thought it all very strange, so she put them away inside Lizzie’s wardrobe for the time. Scratching her head, confused, Maggie spotted on the carpet a small piece of paper that she scrambled to get her hands on. It was a message, rather cryptic, but something that read like some sort of apology. She could only gather Lizzie felt sorry for her outburst in the previous night.

Maggie brought the small note to Lizzie’s boyfriend as quick as physically possible. She didn’t know what it was about him that made it look like he was uttering a command rather than a request, only every time he did it she felt an urgent hurry. He brought the paper close to his eyes, fixing his glasses, and stood still for several moments whilst reading it. Maggie didn’t know why he was taking so long, unless he was reading it over and over again. The message was a short one, nothing much to read there apart from Lizzie's rather dramatic writing style.        

> _Dear heart,_
> 
> _I’m awfully sorry I was unkind to you._  
>  _Please, do try to understand. Things have changed and I don’t know where I should stand._  
>  _Every direction I look to I feel my heartstrings pulled to be torn apart. I haven’t found myself yet._  
>    
>  _Don’t ever worry about me. Forgive me everything._
> 
> _From across the distance,_  
>  _I embrace you tenderly._
> 
> _  
> Elizabeth_

Obscure as that note was, that message was so characteristically Lizzie, no one needed to see the little signing at the bottom to know those were her words. As her boyfriend finally finished reading it, he folded the paper in half and slipped it into his breast pocket, hands stiff as if he had just had a fright or a meeting with a ghost.

Not that Maggie really wanted to keep that message, but it was rather rude of him to take ownership of it without asking first. It was not like Lizzie had written the note for him, was it? Still, reading that piece of paper didn’t seem to bring him much solace. He was still looking terrible, pale as death, unhinged, sporting the pained expression of someone who was about to pass out. It was a good thing he was already seated. Maggie didn't think she was capable of hauling him off the floor.

Maggie cleared her throat to call back his attention. “Well, you see… Lizzie told us not to worry.”

He steered his gaze to her, but it was as if Maggie was a transparent sheet of paper and he wasn’t looking at her at all, but rather, _across_ her, aiming at the wall.

“Look,” she tried to reassure him again, this time using a technique well-tried with Teddy. “I took care of your roses.” She pointed to the flower vase placed on Lizzie’s nightstand. “They’ll be here when she comes back. Isn't that just nice?”

He narrowed his eyes, a dark look crossing his features like a shadow, and he jumped off his seat. Henry Tudor evidently didn't appreciate being coddled like a child. A bolt of energy took over him again, driving him into a state of frenzy. He crossed the room to the nightstand, grabbed the flowers, the vase, the red rose, and everything else within three inches of distance.

“I’m taking these with me.” 

His card, the red rose, he hoarded everything inside his pockets (he would put the vase inside his pocket too if he could, she thought), just like some people — mad with grief, desperate in mourning — go around the deceased’s house grabbing handfuls of objects that remind them of their lost beloved one: photographs, scarves, postcards, letters, all those little remnants of the dead curated in one place only, an extended life by proxy. 

That very comparison chilled her to the core. “Wait!” Maggie called after him before he left the room in his haste. “You don’t think… you don’t think something bad happened to her, do you?”

Sharply, he turned his head to her, yet grew unbelievably still in his place.

“She’s probably at her mum’s, isn't it? You don’t think… She didn't do anything reckless, do you think? It’s not like... it's not like she’s lying in a hospital bed somewhere, is it?”

That seemed to drive the dagger deeper into the wound. “Why would you even say that?” He huffed, as though that was the most odious thing he had ever heard in his life. He was back at his rushing again, making his way out. “For God's sake, don’t ever say that again!" 

Then, about to exit the flat, he stopped dead in his tracks. He placed the flower vase aside, turned to her slowly, contrite.

“Margaret,” he began by a great heave. He pushed back some of the disorderly hair strands falling on his eyes. “It's late. Before I go, I would… like... to take you to Teddy. If you’ll allow me, that is. It would be safer and faster that way.”

That declaration shocked her tremendously, but he couldn’t see the extension of her shock, for he was continuously and intensely looking at the floor. "I also want to bring you back here. I hope this time I won’t… scare... Teddy." His words were slow but precise. "That wasn't my intention last time. Yet, in spite of that, I want to say that I... apologise.”

When he finished, he raised his eyes to her in a sheepish, unprecedented way. Almost he looked like a sorry child, almost he resembled a convict seeking repentance in any form, anyway.

Her astonishment prevented her from speaking for several seconds. “Ah, I mean... ok.”

For the first time that night, relief flashed across his face, if only partially. He reached inside one of his pockets. “Would you do me one last favour, Margaret?” He opened his hand to reveal a set of keys. “Would you give this to Lizzie if you see her?” Maggie took them into her own hand warily, as though that was an alien, extraterrestrial object. “I made her a copy. She’ll know what it’s about.”

Though puzzled, Maggie nodded. “I will.”

“Thank you.” He blinked, his voice heavy and serious. “Now, I promised I would get you a cab. That's what I mean to do.”

As he turned to his phone, Maggie let surprise set on her face. A cab ride with Henry Tudor! What an odd, unexpected way to finish that evening. As she left for Teddy, Maggie sent a short prayer for her cousin. _May heaven protect her from any harm._ Life was indeed stranger than fiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> I guess we can say this is Henry by the end of this chapter: [[x](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/9e/a7/6c/9ea76c1b1b7e49f65b0103e15105161c.jpg)]. What do you readers think?
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> As always, I'm always here to hear your thoughts! x


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